WHO  FOLLOWS 
IN  THEIR  TRAIN?" 


MARY  CAROL  NE  HOLMES 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train ?" 
A  Syrian  Romance 


'We  were  cantering  down  the  sands." 


0  jo 

Syrian  Romance 

!r 

Caroline  holmes 


ILLUSTRATED 


New  York        Chicago        Toronto 

Fleming    H.    Revell    Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  17  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto:  75  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London:  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:  100  Princes  Street 


To  THE  DEAR  MEMORY 
OP 


The  world  is  a  passage  way,  not  a 
house  to  dwell  in. — Arab  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  ONE 

Leaving  Constantinople,  March  25,  190- 

The  cleavage  is  so  sharp  between  the  part  of  my 
life  marked  by  the  twenty-four  years  left  behind 
me  on  the  White  Star  dock  eleven  days  ago,  and 
that  upon  which  I  am  entering,  that  I  am  beginning 
the  record  at  once  of  the  opening  chapter  of  the 
second  instalment  of  my  life  story  in  the  Russia- 
leather  blank  book  you  gave  me,  mother  dear.  I 
warn  you  it  won't  be  a  diary,  but  as  near  a  one-sided 
talk  with  you  as  I  can  make  it. 

I  do  not  have  the  sense  of  your  absence  as  strong 
here  on  this  ship  moving  past  the  domes  and  min 
arets  of  the  old  city  of  Constantine,  as  I  did  when 
you  stood  on  the  dock  in  New  York  and  I  on  the 
steamer,  unable  to  touch  you  although  I  could  see 
your  dear  face.  I  feel  somehow  that  you  have  come 
along  too,  and  will  help  me  live  this  new  life.  What 
is  the  record  going  to  be?  Anything  worth  while? 
Up  to  Constantinople  you  know.  We  have  been 
over  it  all  together  more  than  once.  The  last  time 
we  were  here,  do  you  remember?  how  we  looked 
from  the  windows  of  the  hotel  out  over  the  Bospho- 
rus  to  the  Asiatic  shore  and  wondered  what  it  would 
mean  to  live  there?  And  here  I  am  to-day  on  a 

9 


10         "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

Messagerie  steamer,  moving  not  too  rapidly  toward 
the  oldest  part  of  Asia.  And  not  as  a  tourist,  but 
the  secretary-to-be  to  the  President  of  the  S.  and  S. 
Company  of  Trablus. 

Sailing  under  Cyprus. 

I  will  have  to  confess  to  you  dear  Intimate  Book, 
that  I  have  been  dreadfully  seasick  since  leaving 
Constantinople.  The  Dardanelles,  Smyrna,  Rhodes 
are  all  a  blur.  Some  day  perhaps,  I'll  come  this  way 
again,  and  then  can  see  somewhat  more  of  these 
places  than  the  little  speck  framed  by  my  porthole. 

To-day  has  been  glorious.  I  have  been  out  on 
deck  watching  the  bare,  bleak  mountains  of  the 
Island  of  Cyprus,  wondrously  beautiful,  ever  chang 
ing,  revealing  now  a  dark  gorge  with  its  dry  water 
course,  here  a  ruined  town  and  there  a  fishing  hamlet 
nestling  on  the  seashore.  It  looks  hoary  and  ancient, 
as  though  having  passed  through  the  stone  age  and 
the  bronze  age  and  all  the  rest,  the  land  had  left 
behind  it  the  tree  age  too.  How  bare  it  is !  There 
are  scraps  of  green  here  and  there,  which  the  Cap 
tain  tells  me  are  wheat  fields,  or  perhaps  stumpy 
mulberry  trees  and  vines,  for  silk  and  grapes  are 
raised  here.  But  how  little, — how  small  it  all 
seems. 

To-morrow  we  shall  get  in  and  my  journey  end. 
Think  of  writing  Trablus,  Syria,  Turkey  in  Asia, 
at  the  head  of  my  letters! 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"        11 

Trabhis,  Syria,  Asia. 

Mother  dear,  I  was  up  before  daylight  and  out 
on  deck  with  the  scrubbers,  to  get  the  first  glimpse  of 
my  new  home  land.  Away  to  the  south  lie  Nazareth 
and  Bethlehem  of  Judaea  and  Jerusalem  with  a  hill 
without  the  wall  whereon  once  a  Cross  was  set.  Ah, 
and  I'll  see  those  places  which  are  only  names,  per 
haps. 

As  I  stood  wrapped  in  my  sea-cloak,  watching 
the  day  dawn  against  a  sky  of  dissolving  night,  the 
snow-capped  Lebanon  mountains  gradually  came 
into  view.  We  seemed  to  be  heading  straight  for 
them  as  though  to  match  our  impotent  strength  of 
steam  and  steel  with  their  rocks  and  crags  and 
towering  crests  glistening  and  glowing  with  the 
colour  bearers  of  the  coming  day.  One  peak  stood 
up  majestic  and  serene  above  the  others,  Mt.  Sunnin, 
some  one  said  it  was,  while  somewhat  lower  and  to 
the  south,  Keniseh  lifted  its  head  as  though  mar 
shalling  the  tumbled,  crowding  lesser  peaks  and  foot 
hills  which  fell  away  clear  to  the  sea  edge. 

Everywhere  were  signs  of  life.  Numberless  vil 
lages  and  towns  showed  on  shore  and  sloping  hill, 
while  the  metropolis  of  this  T  art  of  the  world,  Bey- 
rout,  stretched  itself  out  into  the  sea  on  a  low  plateau 
like  a  crouching  giant, — Beyrout  with  its  fine  houses, 
French  harbour  and  railway,  automobiles,  foreign 
consulates,  golf  courses,  electric  tramway  and  lights. 
What  a  revelation! 

As  we  drew  nearer  and  swung  closer  in  shore,  I 


12        "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

could  see  the  buildings  of  the  great  American  Col 
lege  standing  out  in  the  morning  light,  a  determining 
factor,  a  fellow  passenger  told  me  in  the  new  day 
dawning  for  Turkey.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
tower  of  a  church  in  among  some  trees,  which  my 
kind  informant  said  was  also  American.  It  looked 
home-like  and  reminded  me  a  bit  of  the  one  we 
love  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue.  But  why  so  much 
America  away  out  here? 

At  last  we  steamed  slowly  through  the  narrow 
opening  into  the  harbour,  and  as  I  heard  the  anchor 
slip  into  the  water,  I  realized  that  the  old  was  to  be 
to  me  the  new,  and  that  I  had  arrived  in  the  Land  of 
Promise.  /  in  the  Land  of  Canaan !  Fascinated,  I 
watched  the  crowding  boats,  the  insistent,  calling, 
sweating,  barefooted  boatmen  clambering  up  the 
sides  of  our  ship:  the  colour  of  the  red  fezes,  the 
blue  Turkish  trousers,  the  gay  rugs  in  the  stern  and 
the  white  awnings  over  the  more  pretentious  fluc- 
cias  mingled  with  the  khaki  uniforms  of  the  harbour 
police.  From  the  stern  of  one  trim,  white  boat 
whose  cushions  were  covered  with  linen  cool  and 
neat,  there  blazed  the  blessed  Stars  and  Stripes,  and 
my  heart  throbbed  and  my  eyes  blurred  as  I  caught 
sight  of  it  and  the  wave  of  a  welcoming  pith  helmet 
in  the  hand  of  cousin  David  Hackett  It  was  good 
to  see  a  kinsman  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey, 
and  I  was  glad  of  the  flag  and  the  welcome,  and  to 
be  put  in  a  fine  touring  car  and  taken  to  a  really 
good  hotel  for  breakfast,  before  starting  for  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       13 

fifty-mile  spin  to  Trablus.  The  French  steamers 
from  Constantinople  do  not  call  at  any  Syrian  port 
before  reaching  Beyrout.  So  David  ran  down  to 
meet  me.  He  says  it  is  not  so  very  long  since  the 
last  stretch  of  carriage  road  was  finished  over  a 
treacherous,  sliding  promontory  by  the  sea.  Form 
erly  it  took  two  days  to  reach  Beyrout  which  he  did 
in  not  more  than  four  hours.  Beyrout  will  keep. 
Anyway,  I  did  not  see  much  of  it  excepting  the 
streets  we  passed  through  getting  out  of  it.  But 
everywhere  the  same  wonderful  colouring, — blue 
and  red  predominating,  contrasted  with  the  white 
houses  and  turbans. 

I  am  too  excited  to  describe  the  drive  up  here, 
and  I  could  not  if  I  tried.  I  know  we  whizzed 
along  following  the  general  shore  line,  past  great 
stretches  of  mulberry  orchards,  orange  groves,  high- 
arched  bridges, — the  kind  you  always  see  in  pictures 
of  the  Holy  Land, — caught  glimpses  of  market  gar 
dens  through  half -opened  gates,  saw  the  pumping 
station  of  the  Beyrout  waterworks  before  sweeping 
over  a  fine  modern  bridge  just  above  the  mouth  of 
the  Dog  River  where  the  road  was  flanked  by  cof 
feehouses,  jessamine  embowered  with  the  lure  of 
the  flowing,  tumbling  water  from  the  spillway, — 
crossing  and  recrossing  a  little  railway,  ever  on 
skirting  the  beautiful  Junieh  Bay  and  through  the 
town  of  the  same  name  which  is  full  of  bustle  and 
energy,  passing  the  Tuberculosis  Sanatorium  one 
wise  American  woman  doctor  has  built,  following 


14       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

the  way  the  Romans  went,  through  towns  whose 
antiquity  made  me  gasp,  one  of  which  was  the  cap 
ital  of  a  nation  which  was  old  when  Joshua  crossed 
the  Jordan  with  the  children  of  Israel,  and  where 
Cousin  David  says  was  found  recently  a  rude  clay 
Ashtaroth  which  was  worshipped  one  thousand 
years  before  Abraham's  time. 

I  can  never  forget  two  phases  of  that  ride, — the 
part  of  the  road  through  the  Mesailaha  Pass — David 
says  that  means  little  arsenal — cut  out  of  the  solid 
rock  right  over  the  sea.  The  promontory  was  liter 
ally  pared  off  some  three  hundred  feet — did  he  say  ? 
and  on  a  splendid  roadway  we  actually  hung  over 
the  sea  dashing  and  fuming  some  hundreds  of  feet 
below. 

The  second  sight  I'll  remember  as  long  as  life 
lasts,  is  that  of  the  great  olive  groves  of  the  Kura, 
a  broad,  fertile  plateau  which  stretches  for  miles  and 
miles  and  everywhere  silvery  grey,  twisted  olive 
trees.  But  oh,  the  approach  to  Trablus!  We  got 
the  intoxicating  scent  of  the  orange  blossoms  long 
before  we  could  see  the  city.  Mother  dear,  does 
Paradise  itself  hold  anything  fairer  than  a  grove 
of  orange  trees,  white  with  bloom,  exhaling  odours 
as  though  from  the  gardens  of  Allah,  close  by  a 
graceful,  arched  bridge,  commanding  a  long  avenue 
edged  with  ancient,  silvery  olive  trees,  leading  into 
the  city  of  one's  desire? 

Dear  Intimate  Book,  I  am  surfeited  with  beauty, 
awed  by  the  towering  mountains  thrusting  their 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       15 

shoulders  up  against  the  sky,  and  am  fairly  bewil 
dered  by  this  old  Phoenician  town  girdled  with 
orange  and  apricot  trees  in  full  bloom.  To-morrow 
I  will  write  more.  What  is  this  old  world  beauty  I 
have  come  into? 

The  next  day. 

I  fell  asleep  last  night  with  the  feeling  of  having 
at  last  attained !  If  water  has  any  sensation  it  must 
be  satisfaction  at  finding  its  own  level.  That  is  my 
state  of  mind  now. 

Cousin  Betty's  welcome  consisted — after  the  usual 
preliminaries  of  talk  and  dinner,  in  conducting  me 
to  a  corner  room  with  four  French  windows,  mind 
you,  after  dark.  For  we  talked  so  much  and  the 
dinner  was  so  good  after  three  weeks  of  steamer 
fare — I  did  eat  disgracefully  much — that  I  did  not 
really  see  this  charming  nest  of  mine  until  bedtime. 
But  this  morning!  Off  there — sunrise  way — is  the 
great  frowning  castle  of  Raymond  of  Toulouse — 
it  is  all  there  flanked  miles  in  the  rear  by  the  10,500 
feet-high  Lebanon  range,  glistening  and  scintillating 
in  the  sunlight  as  far  as  I  can  see.  And  out  there 
across  a  stretch  of  olive,  mulberry  and  orange  trees 
and  sparkling  yellow  sands  is  the  sea,  dimpled  and 
wavy,  like  a  boundless,  shining  sheet  of  molten 
silver  which  had  not  cooled  evenly.  What  a  com 
bination,  mountains,  castle,  and  the  Mediterranean 
Sea!  I  shall  take  a  spiritual  bath  every  morning 
when  I  look  at  them.  Oh  smell  the  orange  blossoms. 


16       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?'* 

A  Saturday. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  keep  account  of  the  days  in 
this  record  for  you,  mother.  It  will  be  past  history 
when  you  read  it  anyway.  So  what  matter  whether 
it  was  on  a  Monday  or  a  Friday  the  things 
happened  I  tell  you  of.  It  is  simply  a  record  of 
some  of  the  things  I  do  and  see  and  feel.  For  a 
whole  week  nearly  I  have  been  finding  myself.  It 
must  have  been  in  some  former  incarnation  I  was 
an  Arab,  for  I  love  everything  here,  even  the  pink 
and  blue  houses  and  the  solemn,  slow-pacing  Moslem 
men  whose  way  I  have  to  get  out  of  or  be  shoved  out 
in  passing  them  in  the  street.  They  are  oblivious  of 
being  discourteous.  It  is  simply  the  age-long  cus 
tom  which  has  given  men  the  right  of  way. 

Cousin  David  thought  it  well  that  I  get  my  bear 
ings  before  beginning  work,  and  I  have  made  the 
most  of  my  opportunities,  going  about  with  Betty 
seeing  things.  The  city  of  Trablus  lies  two  miles 
or  so  from  the  sea  and  is  connected  with  the  port, 
el  Mina,  by  a  quaint,  mule-drawn  tram  line.  The 
cars  are  double  decked  and  divided  inside  that  there 
be  seclusion  for  the  hare  em.  I  wish  I  could  picture 
to  you  the  view  we  get  from  the  top  of  the  cars. 
On  either  side  of  the  roadway  are  orange  gardens 
exhaling  nectar,  fenced  off  by  cactus  hedges  and 
tall  reeds  which  later  on  will  be  topped  with  feathery 
plumes  shaken  by  every  wind  that  blows.  One  of 
the  silk  factories  Cousin  David  has  to  do  with  is 
near  el  Mina,  and  we  are  going  to  see  the  swiftly 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       17 

revolving  reels  winding  the  cobwebby  yellow  silk 
threads  from  the  cocoons  as  soon  as  the  new  crop 
is  ready. 

I  have  not  told  you  that  although  Cousin  David's 
Company  is  known  as  the  Soap  and  Silk  Commis 
sion  Company,  they  are  exporters  of  all  sorts  of 
commodities,  doing  a  large  business  in  oranges, 
lemons,  eggs,  olives  and  olive  oil  and  licorice  root, 
aside  from  producing  raw  silk  and  pure  olive  oil 
soap.  (The  cook  washes  her  dishes  and  the  laun 
dress  the  clothes  in  this  same  olive  oil  soap.)  Each 
week,  at  least  one  steamer  leaves  the  port  freighted 
with  their  products,  only.  It  looks  as  though  I  might 
be  busy  in  that  office  in  el  Mina. 

Another  day. 

Fortunately  Betty  needed  something  from  the 
market  to-day  and  took  me  with  her.  Women  are 
not  supposed  to  go  in  person  to  shop  in  this  land. 
If  we  want  something  Selim,  Betty's  factotum,  tells 
the  merchant  and  he  comes  to  the  house  with  half 
his  shop  on  the  back  of  a  hammed,  for  us  to  select 
from.  But  we  are  foreign  women,  and  do  things 
the  Syrian  ladies  hesitate  to  do.  We  went  in  state 
this  morning,  Selim  walking  gravely  ahead  to  shoo 
plodding  donkeys  and  laden  camels  out  of  the  way, 
and  to  prevent  the  inquisitive  children  from  being 
too  inquiring.  What  bright  eyes  they  have,  and 
some  we  met  were  skipping  along,  books  under  their 


18       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

arms,  to  the  American  schools  which  they  tell  me 
are  somewhere  here. 

Oh,  dear  Intimate  Book,  I  never  did  love  mission 
aries,  mother  knows  I  never  did.  There  is  enough 
of  the  foreign  element  right  in  New  York  and 
Brooklyn  if  one  wants  to  proselyte.  But  why  come 
so  far  to  do  it?  and  change  all  this  poetic  beauty 
one  sees  everywhere. 

We  peeped  into  the  big  mosque  wherein  repose 
two  hairs  from  Mohammed's  beard,  but  could  not 
enter  without  taking  off  our  shoes,  and  unfortu 
nately  we  do  not  carry  shoehorns  in  our  pockets. 
So  we  did  not  see  much.  The  streets  are  narrow, 
but  well  paved  with  the  gutter  in  the  middle,  now 
passing  under  a  darkish  arched  place  like  a  small 
tunnel,  and  now  blossoming  into  a  space  where  the 
little  shops  blaze  with  exquisite  oriental  things.  Once 
we  passed  through  a  lane  of  flaming  red  shoes,  into 
another  of  yellow  ones,  which  was  followed  by  the 
black  and  tan  sections.  Next  we  strayed  into  the 
resounding  copper  suq  (market)  where  the  cooking 
utensils  are  hammered  into  shape  and  whitened  for 
use.  But  the  silk  suq  was  bewilderingly  beautiful 
and  where  we  found  the  yellows,  blues  and  pinks 
predominating  and  always  harmonizing.  Horns — 
the  old  Emesa  of  the  Romans  before  which  Aurelian 
defeated  Zenobia,  queen  of  Palmyra — together  with 
Hamath  and  Damascus  are  famous  for  their  silks, 
all  hand  woven.  Cousin  Betty  has  the  most  fascinat 
ing  things  like  dcileys,  towels  and  table  covers,  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       19 

like  of  which  we  never  see  at  home,  and  all  made 
here. 

As  we  were  threading  our  way  through  the 
crowded,  narrow  streets  making  for  the  bridge  with 
its  shops  like  the  one  in  Lucerne,  we  saw  a  long 
string  of  camels  coming.  If  I  am  afraid  of  anything 
on  earth  along  with  snakes,  it  is  a  growly,  foaming 
camel.  As  the  head  one  with  its  floppy  under  lip 
covered  with  froth  came  near,  it  swerved  towards 
me,  reaching  out  its  long,  bell-bedecked  and  blue- 
beaded  neck,  making  that  blood-curdling  noise  in  its 
throat,  and  I  thought  my  time  had  come.  I  jumped 
back  and  screamed, — yes,  mother,  I  did — looking 
wildly  about  for  a  Don  Quixote,  and  there  one  stood, 
smiling!  "Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said,  doffing  his  hel 
met,  and  reining  in  his  white  horse,  stood  between 
me  and  that  long  line  of  monsters.  I  was  so  fright 
ened  that  I  scarcely  noticed  when  the  last  one  had 
gone  by  nor  that  my  knight  too  passed  on  with  a  bow 
to  Betty. 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked  when  I  had  found  my 
breath. 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  saw  him  before,"  she 
replied. 

"He  does  not  look  like  a  missionary,  does  he  ?"  I 
queried. 

Betty  laughed.    "Wait  till  you  see  one,"  she  said. 


20       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

The  very  next  day. 

To-day  we  have  been  busy  at  home.  It  seemed 
a  bit  odd  to  hear  Betty  say  this  morning, 

"This  is  my  day  at  home,  Rachel." 

"And  must  we  observe  conventions  out  here?"  I 
groaned. 

"Why  not?"  she  answered.  "All  the  foreign 
ladies  have  a  set  time  to  receive  formal  visits,  and 
I  think  our  Syrian  friends  like  it  too,  for  some  of 
them  are  adopting  the  custom.  We  will  have  a  good 
many  calls  I  expect,  for  every  one  will  be  curious 
to  see  the  new  lady,  and  her  clothes  in  the  latest 
style.  Besides,  all  of  David's  business  acquaintances 
will  feel  constrained  to  pay  their  respects  to  his 
cousin." 

And  they  began  to  come  before  three  o'clock. 
Oh,  mother,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  them.  The 
first  caller  was  what  Betty  calls  "dear  Um  Fuad," 
a  round,  roly-poly  Moslem  woman,  who  came  in  all 
wrapped  in  a  beautiful,  brocaded,  black  silk  robe, 
with  a  thick  veil  over  her  face,  and  who  kissed  Betty 
on  both  cheeks  and  me  also,  and  asked  how  I  liked 
Syria  and  if  I  could  speak  Arabic  yet! 

Presently  I  saw  her  pulling  up  her  dress  skirt  and 
fumbling  in  a  pocket  hidden  away  somewhere  under 
neath,  from  which  she  extracted  a  bunch  of  jessa 
mine  and  roses  on  inch-long  stems,  which  she  pre 
sented  to  me  in  a  shy,  formal  manner,  saying,  "Wel 
come,  welcome  to  our  land."  This  was  followed 
by  an  orange  for  me  and  one  for  Betty.  It  seems 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       21 

she  never  comes  without  some  little  gift.  The  Arabs 
have  a  proverb,  "An  empty  hand  is  unclean,"  and 
that  capacious  pocket  contains  an  unfailing  supply 
of  rose  water  for  Betty's  bottle,  apples,  nuts,  sweets 
and  fragrant  posies. 

Another  curious  thing  is  that  both  the  father  and 
mother  of  a  son  lose  their  own  names,  excepting  for 
formal  occasions,  and  are  known  as  Abu  and  Um 
Fuad,ior  instance, "the  father  and  mother  of  Fuad." 
Um  Fuad  would  not  stay  long  lest  she  encounter 
strange  men,  and  the  next  one  who  came  was  a  man 
whose  massive  head,  with  its  crown  of  white  hair 
and  flowing  beard,  made  me  half  believe  him  to  be 
one  of  the  prophets  right  out  of  the  Bible.  He 
greeted  me  with  "Thanks  be  to  Allah,  thou  hast 
come  in  peace,"  and  looked  at  me  with  such  kind, 
fatherly  eyes.  Cousin  David  tells  me  he  is  a  fine 
Arabic  scholar.  I  am  going  to  see  if  he  will  not 
teach  me  Arabic.  I  simply  cannot  be  tongue-tied, 
if  I  am  to  live  out  here  any  length  of  time,  I  like  to 
talk  too  much.  Several  of  the  Syrian  ladies  and 
men  spoke  English  and  French  very  well,  but  I  wish 
to  talk  to  everybody — the  porters  and  donkey  boys. 
Who  knows?  Perhaps  I'll  want  to  be  a  missionary 
yet !  Nay,  not  I.  All  the  same,  I  am  going  to 
learn  how  to  read  and  speak  Arabic,  and  find  out  for 
myself  if  the  strange  sounds  I  hear  on  all  sides,  are 
blessings  or  curses.  They  sound  suspiciously  like 
the  latter. 

At  last  I  have  seen  a  missionary.    They  all  called, 


22       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

and  I  was  surprised  to  find  them  cultivated,  well 
bred,  well-dressed  people.  I  lost  my  heart  to  one  or 
two  of  the  men, — such  splendid,  dignified  specimens 
of  the  kind  America  produces, — and  I'll  have  to  con 
fess  I  do  not  see  how  the  belief  that  only  the  failures 
at  home  go  to  convert  non-Christian  people  tallies 
with  these  men  I  have  seen  to-day,  who  are  clearly 
successes.  And  as  for  the  women, — but  wait  until 
I  know  them  better.  My  own  sex  is  always  prob 
lematical,  you  know. 

The  grand  climax  to  the  day  was  when  Cousin 
David  came  in  for  tea,  something  he  never  does,  but 
this  time  to  bring  my  knight  and  defender  from 
growly,  frothing  camels.  And  now  what  do  you 
think  of  that?  as  the  boys  in  my  Sunday  School  class 
used  to  say.  John  Denise  Whitelaw,  LL.D.,  F.R.S., 
F.R.G.S.,  etc.,  etc.,  (I  have  supplied  the  labels.  He 
looks  them  anyway)  he  proved  to  be.  An  English 
archaeologist  on  his  way  to  excavate  some  sup 
posedly  Hittite  mounds  up  in  Asia  Minor  some 
where.  Observe  the  ease  with  which  I  use  these 
wonderful  names,  mother  of  me. 

"An  almost  very  tall  man,  wasn't  he,  cousin 
Rachel?"  little  Caryl  quaintly  said,  Cousin  David's 
seven-year-old  son,  of  whom  I  have  not  had  time  to 
tell  you,  but  he  deserves  more  than  honourable  men 
tion.  Tall,  yes,  with  the  breeding  of  a  well-born 
Briton,  the  kind  one  meets  at  the  week-end  parties 
at  country  houses  in  England. 

Betty  and  I  did  not  count  at  all,  after  polite  in- 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       23 

quiries  as  to  a  complete  recovery  from  the  fright 
of  yesterday,  other  than  the  pourer  and  carrier  of 
cups  of  tea  he  and  Cousin  David  consumed  between 
the  display  and  examination  of  some  broken,  dusty 
bits  of  pottery  which  the  archaeologist  pronounced 
unlike  any  he  had  seen  before.  David  has  a  liking 
for  odd  bits,  without  knowing  their  historic  value, 
and  had  picked  up  odd  pieces  because  they  were 
queer  and  ancient.  There  is  a  sizable  cabinet  full 
of  them,  and  Mr.  Whitelaw  became  so  interested  in 
them  that  he  asked  if  he  might  examine  them  care 
fully  some  time.  He  told  Cousin  David  he  had  al 
ready  seen  in  a  hasty  glance,  a  larger  variety  of  pre 
historic  pottery  than  contained  in  any  museum  in 
Europe.  Mind  you,  mother,  these  are  only  frag 
ments  of  jars,  but  the  vast,  limitless  past  before 
man  began  to  build  houses  or  wear  clothes,  and 
whose  tools  and  weapons  were  only  sharp  pieces  of 
stones,  can  be  visualized  and  made  real  by  these 
broken  bits  of  sun-baked  clay  and  a  flint  axe  or 
knife.  I  foresee  my  leaning  towards  the  ancients. 
Before  I  realized  it,  I  had  drawn  near  the  window 
where  they  stood  talking  and  was  drinking  in  all 
that  this  wise  digger  into  the  hidden  past  was  saying. 
I  really  went  to  fetch  his  empty  cup,  and  found  he 
had  not  tasted  it  yet.  Then  I  lifted  up  my  voice, 
"Cousin  David,  don't  you  expect  any  more  days  to 
follow  this  one?  And  must  all  this  be  decided  this 
minute?  Those  pre-historics  won't  get  a  whit  more 


24       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

modern  if  you  allow  Mr.  Whitelaw  to  drink  this  cup 
of  hot  tea." 

They  both  laughed  and  came  to  the  tea  table,  and 
the  Briton,  with  a  grave  smile  and  bow  said,  "Miss 
Locke,  you  must  know  that  a  treasure  hunter  has 
great  exultation  when  he  uncovers  that  which  he 
seeks.  In  that  cabinet  yonder  are  treasures  of  great 
value  to  science,  and  some  of  them  I  doubt  are 
known  to  the  men  at  the  British  Museum.  So  you 
will  forgive  the  slight  upon  your  excellent  cup  of 
tea,  won't  you?"  said  with  an  easy  grace  and  smile 
which  somehow  lit  up  his  dark,  deep-set  eyes,  but 
made  me  feel  about  ten  years  old.  It  ended  by  Betty 
asking  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  and  he  and  David  were 
still  talking  when  we  went  to  our  rooms  at  ten 
o'clock,  and  the  train  he  is  to  leave  by  to-morrow 
for  Aleppo  starts  at  4  A.  M  ! 

I  am  sleepy,  I  have  written  long  to-night,  but 
somehow  life  looks  big  and  grand,  with  a  wider 
horizon  than  I  have  ever  known  before,  and  in  New 
York  I  used  to  pity  Cousin  David  and  Betty  in  this 
commercial  self-exile ! 

Sunday,  April  2$th. 

Here  is  a  real  date  for  you.  I  am  sitting  in  my 
"upper  room" — how  easy  it  comes  to  speak  with  the 
tongues  of  ancient  types  out  here — watching  the  lazy 
clouds  drift  about  the  mountain  tops,  now  throwing 
a  veil  over  them  as  if  to  hide  their  glories,  now 
sweeping  majestically  along  and  dragging  it  away 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       25 

with  a  dissolving  touch  as  the  Syrian  sun  shines 
forth  in  strength.  I  like  Sunday  to  be  a  mountain 
day,  a  day  of  vision  of  the  highest,  whether  it  be  the 
everlasting  hills  with  the  strength  of  the  Creator 
holding  them  in  their  places,  or  the  everlasting  Gos 
pel  sustaining  the  soul. 

I  have  to  make  a  confession.  I  am  going  to  take 
back  what  I  said  about  not  liking  missionaries. 
Betty  has  told  me  another  Arab  proverb,  "Never 
blame  the  absent  until  he  is  present."  And  here  I 
have  squeaked  my  criticism  of  these  self-expatriated 
people  without  one  bit  of  knowledge  other  than  what 
one  reads  in  newspapers  about  their  interference  in 
political  matters,  and  mediocrity  and  being  failures 
at  home  and  the  like. 

I  did  not  finish  this  writing  this  morning  for  I 
suspected  I  would  have  more  of  interest  to  relate 
before  the  day  ended.  We  went  to  an  English  ser 
vice  this  afternoon  at  the  mission  church,  and  it 
nearly  bowled  me  over.  The  church  building  for 
one  thing  was  a  surprise  with  its  simple  stateliness 
and  good  architectural  lines.  Then  the  organ  was 
more  than  well  played  by  one  of  the  missionaries. 
Think  of  hearing  the  "Parsifal"  Good  Friday  music 
away  out  here!  And  what  a  sermon  we  had, — 
a  great,  spiritual,  uplifting  throb  of  love  and  devo 
tion  by  the  president  of  the  college  in  Beyrout,  who 
is  up  here  for  some  sort  of  conference  with  the  mis 
sionaries. 

Oh,  but  they  were  all  so  kind  to  me.    The  head  of 


26       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

the  girls'  boarding  school,  a  tall,  fine-featured  wo 
man,  who  speaks  with  the  sweetest  intonation,  car 
ried  me  off  to  her  splendid  school  building  for  a 
cup  of  tea. 

When  we  emerged  through  a  green  lattice  gate 
into  the  adjoining  school  grounds,  my  breath  fairly 
stopped  from  the  loveliness  confronting  me.  Imag 
ine,  first  of  all,  a  number  of  tall,  tapering  cypress 
trees,  like  great  sentinels  on  guard,  with  plane  trees 
taller  still  against  the  outside  wall  which  served  to 
accentuate  the  drooping  pepper  trees,  their  feathery 
branches  adorned  with  clusters  of  red  berries.  And 
can  you  picture  oleanders  grown  to  be  really  trees 
covered  with  pink  and  white  bloom? 

In  the  centre  of  the  garden  was  a  kiosk  over  which 
a  purple  Japanese  paper  vine  flamed  with  colour. 
There  was  a  bewildering  hedge  of  calla  lilies  reach 
ing  up  to  God  hundreds  of  white  chalices  filled 
with  golden  perfume,  another  of  rose  geranium  and 
everywhere  roses,  roses.  They  clambered  away  up 
the  side  of  the  building  almost  to  the  tower.  I 
could  have  gathered  my  arms  full  of  La  Frances, 
and  a  wonderful  white,  semi-climbing  kind  with  a 
scent  like  honey  and  a  greenish  tinge  as  you  looked 
into  its  heart.  And  there  were  Madame  Falcoes 
and  Marechal  Niels  and  Mermets  in  the  greatest 
profusion.  When  we  turned  to  go  up  the  stately 
winding  steps  into  the  building,  there  was  a  display 
of  pendulous  wistaria  blossoms,  which  surpassed 
anything  I  ever  saw  in  the  shape  of  flowers.  They 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       27 

clambered  on  both  sides  of  the  railings  to  hang 
myriads  of  their  lavender  lanterns:  up  the  side  of 
the  house  to  the  top  of  the  tower  where  hungry  bees 
gorged  riotously:  reached  out  and  caught  the  near 
by  trees  and  festooned  them  with  the  same  lavish 
hand,  and  kept  on  bridging  the  street  to  intrude 
their  beauty  on  the  neighbours,  who  gave  them  a 
royal  welcome  and  in  turn  passed  on  their  loveliness 
and  sweetness  to  their  neighbours.  Does  this  de 
scription  give  you  any  conception  of  it,  mother  dear? 
I  turned  to  Miss  Delight,  (that  is  my  name  for  her. 
You  can  look  in  the  Board's  reports  for  her  real 
name),  and  said,  "Is  this  how  you  pave  your  way 
into  Syrian  hearts,  through  an  avenue  of  riotous 
colour  and  intoxicating  scents  ?  No  wonder  they  call 
you  the  most  successful  missionary  out  here." 

"My  dear,"  and  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her 
deprecatory  smile  as  she  spoke,  "the  soul  is  reached 
through  the  gates  of  delight  and  joy  as  well  as 
through  the  intellect.  And  besides,  one  must  have 
something  outside  of  actual  work  in  this  far-away 
land  as  a  stabilizer.  Why,  child,"  and  the  smile  was 
tremulous,  "there  is  not  an  hour  in  the  day  there 
does  not  come  crowding  in  on  me  some  vision  of 
green  fields  and  maple  woods  and  winding  rivers  and 
full  brooks,  and  my  childhood's  home  on  the  farm  in 
New  England.  Did  you  ever  sing  'America'  with 
the  tears  rolling  down  your  cheeks  from  sheer  home 
sickness  for  your  native  land?  Ah,  my  flowers  are 
my  consolers."  How  the  light  of  that  woman's 


28       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

soul  shone  in  her  fine  eyes  as  she  went  on,  for  I 
could  not  speak.  "But,  Miss  Locke,  what  is  it  all 
compared  with  one  young  heart  started  out  rightly 
equipped  to  fight  life's  battles — simply  the  privilege 
of  giving  to  my  sisters  here  from  the  fullness  we 
American  women  have  in  unstinted,  overflowing 
measure,  is  compensation  enough,  and  I  would  not 
change  my  lot  with  any  other  woman  on  earth." 

We  were  seated  in  her  plainly  furnished  sitting 
room  by  now,  drinking  tea  brought  by  a  bright-faced 
maid,  whom  Miss  Delight  told  me  she  had  taken  to 
bring  up. 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  I  queried,  "wherein  lies  your 
motive  power  for  all  this  work?  I  can  understand 
the  desire  to  give  people  a  chance  to  learn  to  read 
and  write  and  to  get  some  of  our  Western  culture, 
the  depth  of  which  I  sometimes  question,  but  why — 
is  there  not  enough  of  this  same  foreign  element  at 
home  ?  Why  come  so  far  to  do  it  ?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  her  eyes  cast  down — 
a  way  she  has  when  thinking — then  raising  them 
aflood  with  inner  fire  and  purpose  said  softly,  her 
hand  on  mine,  "Dear  unbeliever  in  missionaries, 
there  is  only  one  answer  to  that — because  I  believe 
that  Whose  I  am  and  Whom  I  serve,  wants  me  to 
do  it,  and  do  it  in  this  way  and  in  this  place."  I 
was  dumb  in  the  presence  of  such  sublime  faith 
even  though  I  could  not  understand  it.  After  I 
could  command  my  voice  I  asked, 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  doing  it?" 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       29 

"Thirty-six  years  and  more." 

"And  you  have  been  home  how  many  times?" 

"Three,"  she  said  simply.  There  came  a  knock 
just  then,  and  rising,  she  explained, 

"I  must  be  rude  and  dismiss  you  now,  as  this  is  the 
hour  when  my  helpers  come  to  me  and  we  talk  over 
problems  in  the  work  and  take  counsel  of  our  Lord. 
Will  you  come  and  see  me  again?" 

Mother  Locke,  did  you  know  how  small  a  soul 
your  child  has,  and  how  dwarfed  her  conception  of 
life  is  compared  with  that  saint's  in  the  big,  brown 
schoolhouse?  To-morrow  I  begin  my  work,  type 
writing,  bookkeeping,  etc.  May  I  do  my  job  as  well 
as  she  does  hers. 

And  here  ends  the  first  chapter  of  my  life  away 
from  you  under  Syrian  skies.  The  Russia-leather 
book  is  full — it  is  not  very  large,  and  I  am  sending 
it  by  the  first  mail,  on  Tuesday.  Mother,  mother, 
am  I  going  to  be  of  any  real  use  here  ? 


He  who  teacheth  that  which  is  good 
and  doeth  not  accordingly,  is  likened 
unto  a  blind  man  carrying  a  lamp.  He 
lighteneth  others,  but  not  himself. — 
Arabic  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Early  one  morning. 

Cousin  David's  office  is  in  el  Mina — el  means  the 
and  Mina,  harbour  or  port,  and  the  window  near  my 
desk  gives  me  a  view  of  the  sea — limitless,  with  the 
farther  shore  no  nearer  than  Sandy  Hook.  I  close 
my  eyes  sometimes  and  see  the  steamer  I  shall  come 
home  by  swinging  through  the  Narrows  and  up  the 
Bay,  with  all  the  sky-scrapers  waving  welcoming, 
beckoning  hands  from  every  window.  Then  Cousin 
David's  buzzer  buzzes  and  I  fly  into  his  room  to  take 
orders  for  the  making  out  and  filing  of  invoices  for 
bales  of  raw  silk  consigned  to  France  or  licorice 
root  or  something  else  to  some  other  country.  His 
windows  command  the  mountains  and  I  always  try 
to  get  a  peep  at  them  before  going  back  to  do  his 
bidding  with  neatness  and  despatch. 

Mother  dearest,  I  have  been  so  engrossed  with 
getting  my  hand  in,  that  I  have  neglected  to  make 
other  than  the  above  small  beginning  in  Volume 
Two  of  the  plum-coloured  Russia-leather  edition  of 
the  oriental  part  of  my  history.  Cousin  David's  ill 
ness — was  it  not  lucky  I  had  been  here  a  couple  of 
months  when  he  elected  to  have  typhoid? — is  keep- 

33 


34,       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

ing  me  more  than  busy  with  all  I  have  had  to  do. 
Fortunately  he  isn't  very  ill,  and  from  behind  the 
carbolic-sheet-hung  door  in  his  isolation  camp  in  the 
prophet's  chamber  on  the  roof,  can  send  down  in 
structions  to  me  whenever  I  get  stuck.  I  haven't 
made  many  mistakes  that  amount  to  anything,  ex 
cepting  one,  and  that  was  big  enough  to  last  for 
some  time.  I  consigned  some  hundreds  of  kilos  of 
licorice  root  to  a  silk  factory  in  Lyons,  France,  and 
the  same  number  of  bales. of  raw  silk  to  a  drug  firm 
in  London,  and  actually  shipped  them,  too!  We 
only  learned  to-day  that  through  the  kindness  of  the 
respective  firms  the  two  commodities  finally  reached 
their  rightful  destinations. 

It  has  been  impossible  to  get  a  nurse  for  David, 
and  poor  Betty  has  had  everything  to  do  for  her 
husband.  There  is  only  one  foreign  trained  nurse  in 
the  country,  and  she,  of  course,  was  busy  on  a  case. 
When  I  get  back  to  America,  I  am  going  to  see  that 
some  adequate  provision  is  made  for  sick  foreigners. 
Everything  seems  to  be  done  for  "the  people." 

We  were  beginning  the  fourth  week  of  Cousin 
David's  illness  when  a  letter  came  from  Mr.  White- 
law  asking  if  it  would  be  a  convenient  time  for  him 
to  accept  Betty's  oft-repeated  invitation  to  stop  with 
us  for  a  few  days,  while  he  cleared  from  the  cus 
toms  some  supplies  which  had  arrived  from  Eng 
land.  He  has  been  back  and  forth  several  times 
during  the  past  months,  always  dropping  in  for  a 
cup  of  tea  and  an  envious  look  at  the  pre-historics 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       35 

in  the  case.  Betty  brought  his  letter  to  me  for  a 
reply,  and  I  wrote  him  a  very  nice  note  asking  him 
to  postpone  his  visit  till  such  time  as  we  could  show 
him  a  clean  bill  of  health.  Instead,  what  did  the 
man  do,  but  come  on  at  once  and  take  charge  of  us 
all,  David  included,  and  has  been  the  greatest  pos 
sible  comfort  and  help.  Everybody  out  here  is  so 
human  and  mutually  helpful.  Little  Caryl  was  taken 
at  once  into  one  of  the  missionary  homes  where 
there  is  a  houseful  of  children,  the  Winthrops,  and 
is  having  the  time  of  his  life,  he  says. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  is  interesting  in  a  way,  now  that 
one  has  him  at  close  range,  full  of  lore,  specializing 
of  course,  in  Hittites,  but  once  or  twice  has  shown 
such  human  interest  in  other  things,  that  I'd  like 
to  know  what  lies  under  the  surface  of  his  rather 
austere  manner.  I  was  making  tea  the  afternoon 
he  came  and  had  lighted  the  brass  kettle  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  stood  listening  to  him  describe  the 
finding  of  a  Hittite  palace  up  at  his  diggings,  when 
I  happened  to  glance  down  and  saw  my  clean  white 
dimity  frock  blazing,  the  flames  creeping,  running 
up  towards  my  face.  I  gave  a  frightened  gasp,  I 
suppose,  for  he  cried,  "Don't  move,"  and  the  next 
thing  I  knew  his  hands  gripped  me  and  he  was 
wrapping  something  around  me.  I  must  have  lost 
consciousness  for  a  moment  in  that  silly  way  I  have 
when  frightened,  for  his  voice  came  to  me  from 
so  far  away  that  it  seemed  to  shake  and  to  be  with 
out  that  calmness  it  usually  has. 


36       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

"That  was  a  close  call,  child,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  was  low  and  very  gentle.  Child!  That  re 
called  my  scattered  senses,  and  I  found  myself 
again,  and  that  I  was  standing  steadied  by  his 
strong  arms,  and  wrapped  in  his  coat.  The  front 
of  my  dress  was  a  black  mass. 

"Come  over  to  the  chaise  longue  and  rest,  won't 
you?  And  I'll  call  Mrs.  Hackett." 

"No,  please,  I'll  be  quite  myself  in  a  minute.  I 
am  so  sorry,"  I  tried  to  say.  Oh,  mother  darling, 
if  you  had  been  here  you  would  have  understood. 
He  looked  at  me  as  though  deciding  what  to  do  next, 
and  then  did  it — he  picked  me  up  and  placed  me  on 
the  lounge  and  threw  the  afghan  over  my  charred 
skirt. 

"You  are  not  burned  at  all  I  think,  Miss  Locke, 
but" — and  with  one  of  those  rare,  reluctant  smiles 
lighting  his  grave  face,  "it  is  my  turn  now,"  and 
proceeded  to  make  the  tea,  for  the  kettle  was  boiling 
over. 

"I'll  show  you  how  I  have  learned  to  do  things 
at  the  diggings."  Then  Betty  came  running  into 
the  room  exclaiming,  "I  smell  something  burning. 
Is  it  here?  Rachel,  what  is  it?  Why  are  you  lying 
down?  Why,  Rachel  dear,"  as  I  began  to  cry. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  was  bringing  me  a  cup  of  tea,  and 
stood  beside  me,  his  hand  on  my  trembling  arm  with 
a  steady  pressure  and  said  quietly,  "She  tried  to 
burn  herself  up,  Mrs.  Hackett.  Fortunately  I  was 
in  the  room,  but  she  will  need  a  new  frock  I  fear." 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       37 

Dear  Betty,  how  she  comforted  and  petted  me,  and 
even  cried  a  little  herself,  and  when  she  seized  Mr. 
Whitelaw's  hand  to  thank  him,  I  saw  him  wince. 

"Come  here,"  I  commanded,  suddenly  stronger. 
"You  a,re  the  one  who  is  burned.  Oh,  Betty,  look 
at  the  palm  of  his  hand,"  holding  it  between  both 
mine.  "He  saved  my  life,"  I  sobbed  quite  un 
nerved. 

He  gently  withdrew  his  smarting  hand  and  looked 
at  me  with  that  newborn  smile  of  his,  and  for  the 
second  time  said  child.  "It  is  nothing,  my  child. 
But  promise  that  you  will  extinguish  your  match 
another  time,  especially  if  no  one  is  in  the  room 
with  you,  will  you?"  Afterwards  he  seemed  to 
lapse  into  his  cold,  dignified  manner,  but  once  or 
twice  I  have  caught  him  looking  at  me  as  though 
to  make  sure  he  had  thoroughly  done  his  work  of 
rescue. 

I  had  not  hitherto  taken  enough  interest  in  Mr. 
W.  to  tell  you  what  he  looks  like.  Until  he  came  to 
be  in  the  house  with  us,  I  really  had  not  paid  much 
attention  to  him,  excepting  to  note  that  he  was  tall 
and  had  dark,  deep-set  eyes.  His  hair,  I  have  dis 
covered,  is  fair  and  waves  a  little,  and  his  hands  are 
shapely  and  well  cared  for,  the  hands  of  a  musician 
rather  than  those  of  a  grubber  in  the  ashes  of  the 
past.  His  dress  is  always  correct,  and  by  the  way 
the  shoulders  set  up,  I  should  think  nothing  less  than 
the  work  of  a  tailor  not  far  from  Bond  Street.  His 
personality  is  rather  pleasing  when  one  gets  to  know 


38       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

him,  but  it  has  taken  a  long  time  to  get  a  little  teeny 
way  under  his  austere  surface  manners.  And  how 
old  is  he?  Perhaps  thirty,  perhaps  forty,  I  don't 
know.  You  see  I  am  busy  at  the  office  during  the 
day,  and  he  insists  that  Betty  shall  sleep  at  night  and 
let  him  care  for  David,  who  is  rapidly  regaining  his 
health.  He  is  kindness  itself  to  both  Betty  and  me, 
and  I  fancy  is  the  kind  who  makes  friends  slowly, 
but  once  made,  they  last  as  long  as  life. 

That  episode  of  nearly  burning  to  death  has 
shaken  me  more  than  I  care  to  admit,  even  to  you, 
my  intimate  book,  mother  is  to  see.  The  horror  of 
it  seems  to  haunt  me  especially  at  night  when  a  flame 
enveloped  me  holds  back  my  slumbers,  and  I  watch 
in  my  disordered  fancy  those  creeping,  running  rin 
gers  of  fire.  I  somehow  feel  Mr.  Whitelaw  is  aware 
of  this  abnormal  state  of  my  nerves,  for  he  is  so 
very  watchful  of  my  comfort,  an  indefinable  some 
thing,  an  unobtrusive  taking  care,  which  seems  to 
enwrap  me,  especially  when  I  come  home  from  the 
office,  quite  tired  out  with  carrying  the  whole  re 
sponsibility  of  Cousin  David's  business. 

The  missionaries  were  so  lovingly  kind  when  they 
heard  of  all  our  troubles,  and  not  a  day  passes  but 
some  token  of  their  sympathy  and  thoughtfulness 
reaches  us.  My  Miss  Delight  came  running  in  to 
day — the  girls'  school  is  quite  near — and  insisted 
on  my  going  home  with  her  for  over  Sunday.  I 
am  in  the  quiet  chamber  next  hers  now,  and  must 
go  to  bed  lest  I  keep  her  awake. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       39 

Morning. 

The  guest  room  faces  the  sunset,  with  a  view  em 
bracing  orange  gardens,  mulberry  groves  and  the 
yellow,  sand-fringed  sea,  stretching  out  into  the 
west  and  America  on  its  farther  shore.  There  is  a 
small  flat-roofed  house  over  the  garden  wall,  which 
has  a  veranda  embowered  with  yellow  jessamine 
which  sends  its  delicate  odours  through  the  open 
windows  (I  did  not  tell  you  there  is  a  tall  spine  of 
tuberoses  on  my  dressing  table),  and  a  woman,  her 
hair  in  two  long  braids,  is  seated  on  the  floor  sewing, 
her  Singer  hand  machine  on  a  low  table  beside  her. 
A  fat,  chubby  boy  is  playing  there  too,  taking  bites 
now  and  then  from  a  flat  loaf  of  bread  he  has  in  one 
hand.  Around  the  ledge  of  the  veranda  are  tins — 
the  kind  kerosene  oil  comes  in,  in  which  various 
plants  are  growing.  I  noticed  egg  shells  on  sticks 
in  some  of  them,  in  others  the  shine  of  blue  beads 
tied  on  the  branches.  Miss  Delight  tells  me  these 
are  fetishes  to  keep  off  the  evil  eye !  And  that  must 
explain  why  the  horses  and  mules  wear  necklaces  of 
blue  beads. 

I  was  going  to  say  I  could  understand  a  little  why 
they  need  some  one  to  tell  them  a  better  way  about 
some  things,  when  I  remembered  that  we  Westerns 
are  not  devoid  of  superstition  and  the  outward  ex 
pression  of  it.  There  is  knocking  on  wood,  for  in 
stance,  and  an  old  shoe  some  horse  cast  to  be  picked 
up  and  nailed  over  a  gate  or  front  door,  and  the 
rabbit's  foot,  and  father  always  carried  a  horse- 


40       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

chestnut,  you  know,  in  his  pocket  to  ward  off  rheu 
matism,  and  the  four-leaf  clover,  etc.  There  must 
be  some  other  reason  why  the  people  here  need  mis 
sionaries.  While  the  service  in  Arabic  was  going 
on,  I  wandered  about  in  the  garden,  the  garden  of 
delights,  its  beauty  changing  with  the  seasons.  Just 
now  it  is  aglow  with  chrysanthemums,  and  to  my 
joy  I  found  the  little  clustered  hearts  of  gold  arte- 
misias,  and  other  autumnal  flowers  of  the  far-away 
home  gardens,  gardens  of  memory  now,  wherein  is 
the  smell  of  white  grapes  and  Northern  Spy  apples. 
Do  you  remember  in  heavenly  Deanston? 

To-night. 

Last  night,  or  this  morning  rather,  I  had  a  new 
sensation.  Do  you  recall  the  muezzin's  cry  in  old 
Stambul?  We  listened  to  it  that  first  time  with 
amused  curiosity,  thinking  rather  contemptuously 
perhaps,  of  human  energy  being  employed  when  re 
sounding  bronze  might  be  substituted  and  would  be 
heard  farther.  That  has  been  my  mental  attitude 
ever  since  I  came  here  to  dwell  for  these  three  years, 
but  this  morning,  above  my  dreams,  just  as  the  won 
der  of  the  waking  day  showed  in  the  east,  I  heard 
stealing  along  with  the  dawn,  a  voice,  pulsating, 
floating  like  a  thing  with  wings,  which  other  voices 
answered,  echoing,  repeating,  now  in  chorus  now  in 
antiphones,  till  they  seemed  to  circle  round  and 
round  the  slender  minarets  and  whitened  domes, — 
everywhere,  winged,  palpitating  voices  calling,  call- 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       41 

ing  "Come  to  prayer,  come  to  prayer,  prayer  is  bet 
ter  than  sleep,"  and  the  mystery  and  compelling 
power  of  the  floating,  spoken,  human  word, — a  per 
sonal  invitation  to  the  sleeping  thousands,  became 
something  alive  and  pregnant  with  a  new  meaning, 
so  that  I  shall  wait  and  listen  for  the  Adan,  each 
time  of  the  five  every  day.  Here  is  something  which 
cannot  be  improved,  and  I  am  wondering  if  from 
church  towers  and  spires  at  home,  there  should  re 
sound  a  worship  proclamation  instead  of  iron- 
throated  bells,  what  would  be  the  effect.  I  know 
one  thing, — mosques  are  always  full,  while  the  re 
verse  is  true  of  churches  in  America.  Who  knows, 
if  this  seventh-century  way  of  telling  men  there 
are  stated  times  to  repair  to  their  several  places  of 
worship  were  employed,  they  might  not  go  to  church 
more.  What  do  you  think? 

And  I  have  an  idea  that  the  human  touch,  the 
personality  of  the  calling  voice  on  the  little,  narrow 
stone  balcony,  high  up  above  the  street  noises,  is  a 
factor  more  or  less  potent,  in  the  assembling  process. 
I  have  learned  that  what  the  world  wants  is  not  a 
dead,  historic  Christ,  nor  a  buried  Mohammed,  but 
a  living,  personal  voice  and  touch,  "a  hand  like  to 
my  hand"  to  quote  our  friend  and  teacher  Browning. 
I  am  beginning  to  see,  also,  that  there  is  a  place  for 
the  missionaries  here.  We  have  a  message  to  give 
to  the  whole  world,  we  Americans,  and  I  think  it 
must  be  rather  a  joyful  thing  to  be  big  enough  and 
great  enough  in  one's  self  to  be  asked  to  be  a  mes- 


42       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

senger.  I  want  you  to  know  these  splendid  people 
out  here,  the  Americans  I  mean,  big  souled,  broad 
visioned,  deep  thinking,  who  have  given  up  much 
for  "His  dear  sake,"  as  they  love  to  sing.  One  of 
them  could  have  been  Ambassador  to  a  land  not  very 
far  off,  if  he  had  chosen  to  accept, — the  President 
asked  him  to, — and  a  certain  college  wanted  him  for 
the  chair  of,  I  have  forgotten  what,  but  he  declined. 
"This  one  thing  I  do,"  he  said,  "preach  the  unsearch 
able  riches  of  Christ  to  the  people  to  whom  I  have 
been  sent  of  God."  And  yet  not  one  of  them 
will  own  it  is  any  hardship  to  live  these  lives  of  self- 
sacrifice  and  expatriation.  I  think  they  are  the  hap 
piest  people  on  earth,  I  do  really. 

I  am  not  giving  you  events  in  chronological  order, 
but  as  I  have  time  to  jot  them  down  for  you,  you 
dear,  far-away  mother.  I  feel  like  telling  you  to 
night  of  a  conversation  I  had  recently  with  Doctor 
Saleeby,  who  cared  for  David  in  his  illness,  and  who 
has  an  English  wife,  a  very  charming  sort  of  person 
she  is,  too.  We  were  talking  about  the  rumours  afloat 
as  to  an  uprising  against  the  Christians  in  certain 
parts  of  Asia  Minor — an  omnipresent  dread,  which 
has  become  an  actuality  all  too  often.  The  scars  of 
one  terrible  massacre  are  still  to  be  seen.  There  are 
many  now  living  who  were  eyewitnesses  to  the 
butchery  and  savagery  of  the  carnage  and  pillage. 
I  denounced  to  Dr.  Saleeby  such  an  awful  state  of 
affairs.  "How  can  such  a  government  live?"  I  ex 
claimed.  "Why  in  my  country " 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       43 

"Pardon  me,"  my  Syrian  doctor  said,  "I  am  no 
lover  of  the  Turk.  Neither  is  the  Moslem  of  Arab 
blood.  But  you  must  know  there  are  Moslems  and 
Moslems,  just  as  there  are  Americans  and  Ameri 
cans.  According  to  the  newspapers,  even  in  your 
country,  which  boasts  as  its  basic  principle  of  gov 
ernment  that  all  men  are  created  equal,  you  have 
lynchings  and  race  riots  sometimes,  which  appear  to 
outsiders  strange  anomalies  in  a  land  where  good 
government  obtains.  We  have  iniquitous  massacres. 
But  as  I  see  it,  the  spirit  which  animates  ten  or 
twelve  men  to  lead  in  the  execution  of  mob  law  upon 
a  suspected  or  condemned  black  man,  and  that  of  an 
infuriated  Kurdish  horde  is  one  and  the  same.  The 
immeasurable  difference  between  the  two  acts  is  this 
• — our  Kurd  knows  no  law  but  his  own  inflamed  pas 
sionate  hate  and  lust, — your  American  knows  better, 
has  ample  law  and  justice  to  control  and  punish  his 
victim.  He  who  received  most  is  the  worst  offender, 
is  he  not,  in  God's  sight?" 

"I  must  admit  your  argument  is  good,"  I  replied. 
"All  the  same,  the  lynching  of  one  person  cannot  be 
such  a  crime  against  civilization  as  the  indiscrimi 
nate  killing  of  unoffending  masses  of  the  population 
simply  because  you  do  not  like  their  religion." 

"All  true,  perhaps,"  the  Syrian  replied,  "and  yet 
you  must  acknowledge  that  the  motive  which 
prompts  both  massacre  and  lynching  is  one  and  the 
same — hate,  in  the  one  case  of  a  man's  colour  and 
race,  in  the  other  of  his  race  and  religion." 


44       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

I  was  loath  to  admit  that  I  had  been  beaten  in  the 
argument,  but  to  be  frank  with  you,  such  was  the 
case,  and  so  I  changed  the  subject. 

"Dr.  Saleeby,  where  did  you  study  medicine?"  I 
queried. 

"At  the  American  College  in  Beyrout,  after  I  had 
taken  the  arts  course  there.'* 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  Europe?"  I  next  asked. 
He  smiled  as  he  made  answer. 

"I  studied  in  Vienna  for  a  year  after  a  post-grad 
uate  course  at  Johns  Hopkins." 

"No  wonder  you  speak  English  so  well,"  I  ex 
claimed  in  amazement. 

"My  mother  was  an  English  woman,  Miss  Locke, 
and  knew  little  Arabic,  and  of  course,  I  have  rela 
tives  in  England  whom  I  see  frequently.  Besides 
my  father  was  descended  from  Crusading  stock. 
That  is  what  Saleeby  means,  crusader." 

"Then  why,"  I  began  eagerly.  He  smiled  at  me 
again. 

"I  have  asked  myself  that  many  times — why  not 
live  in  a  more  civilized  country?"  There  were 
tempting  offers  in  America,  but  the  lure  of  the 
Lebanon  was  in  my  blood.  'If  you've  'card  the 
East  a  callin',  you  won't  never  'eed  naught  else,'  you 
know.  And  besides,  if  my  country  is  ever  to  rise,  to 
attain  to  greater  things,  it  must  be  from  within,  and 
by  the  efforts  of  her  sons.  I  have  no  sympathy  with 
those  who  desire  one  of  the  European  Powers  to 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       45 

take  Syria.  My  vision  is  of  a  Syria  for  the  Syrians, 
— a  self-governing  State." 

"Do  you  see  any  indications  of  such  a  thing  com 
ing  to  pass?" 

"Many,"  he  quietly  replied.  "The  great  deter 
mining  factor  at  present  is  education.  It  is  to  the 
various  mission  schools  we  owe  much  of  the  light 
we  now  have.  The  College  in  Beyrout  is  one  of 
the  most  potent,  perhaps  I  should  say,  the  greatest 
influence  for  the  good  of  the  community  in  all  Syria 
to-day." 

This  began  to  be  more  than  interesting.  I  was 
finding  out  things. 

"In  what  way,"  I  asked,  "does  the  teaching  of 
the  College  make  for  progress?  It  surely  cannot 
inculcate  insurrection  and  rebellion  against  the  gov 
ernment,  however  bad,  which  allows  it  to  carry  on 
its  work." 

"Quite  the  contrary,"  he  asserted.  "The  College 
is  teaching  patriotism,  something  unexpressed  in 
the  Turkish  language." 

"Tell  me,  is  all  this  progress  due  to  the  efforts  of 
American  Missionaries?" 

"No,  not  all,  but  in  large  measure.  The  College 
while  not  connected  with  any  Board  of  Missions,  was 
created  by  the  American  missionaries,  who  had  a 
vision  broad  enough  to  hand  it  over  to  a  separate 
board  of  trustees,  that  it  be  not  hampered  in  its 
expansion.  The  American  missionaries  have  the 
best  equipped  plant,  and  most  up-to-date,  and  their 


46       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

schools  are  more  numerous  than  those  of  other  na 
tionalities.  Did  you  know  that  the  Turkish  Empire 
contains  an  even  dozen  of  colleges,  founded  by  your 
compatriots,  not  to  mention  the  numbers  of  sec 
ondary  boarding  and  day  schools,  as  well  as  innu 
merable  village  schools.  The  English  have  some  good 
schools,  one  or  two  of  superior  excellence.  In  Pal 
estine  proper,  the  Americans  have  held  aloof,  for 
the  most  part." 

"What  are  the  Roman  Catholics  doing,  any 
thing?" 

"Much.  They  have  schools  and  convents  every 
where.  This  land  has  been  the  refuge  of  monastic 
orders  driven  from  other  lands.  The  Friars  are 
great  educators,  as  are  the  Jesuits.  The  latter  have 
a  finely  equipped  university  in  .Beyrout,  which  is 
connected  with  the  University  of  Paris.  The  Rus 
sians,  too,  have  splendid  schools,  and  the  Germans, 
with  a  few  hospitals  and  orphanages,  are  doing 
much  good.  Even  the  Danes  have  pushed  out  next 
the  desert  where  no  one  else  has  gone.  Now,  Miss 
Locke,  do  you  not  see  towards  what  all  this  is  trend 
ing?  An  educated,  self-respecting  people,  and  please 
God,  in  time  a  self-governing  one." 

"Dr.  Saleeby,  is  it  not  true  that  Islam  has  re 
mained  wholly  untouched  by  Christianity?" 

"Quite  untrue,"  was  his  earnest  rejoinder.  "Prot 
estant  Christianity  is  vitally  affecting  Mohammed 
anism.  Their  leaders  know  this  and  are  more  than 
anxious.  Since  the  Bible  was  put  into  the  majestic 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       47 

Arabic  of  the  Koran,  it  has  been  circulated  widely 
among  the  studious  and  thoughtful,  with  results 
which  will  bear  unexpected  fruit  one  day.  I  could 
name  many  who  are  devout  believers  in  the  teach 
ings  of  Jesus,  and  who  accept  Him  as  their  Saviour. 
Besides,  there  is  a  large  number,  especially  men,  who 
have  lost  their  grip  on  Mohammed's  teachings,  and 
are  drifting,  they  care  not  whither.  But  there  will 
come  a  day  when  there  will  be  an  upheaval  and  an 
overturning,  and  it  will  come  from  within.  What 
has  been  accomplished  has  not  been  the  work  of 
missionaries.  It  has  come  through  reading  the 
Bible.  It  is  the  call  of  Almighty  God  to  a  people 
in  part  a  remnant  of  Israel  mayhap, — all  children 
of  Abraham  at  any  rate,  and  it  will  be  heard." 

"But  surely,  the  Turkish  Government  has  some 
system  of  education.  How  is  it  they  tolerate  the 
presence  of  numberless  schools  conducted  by  for 
eigners,  who  cannot  but  inculcate  ideas  alien  to 
Eastern  thought." 

"The  policy  of  the  Turkish  Government  has  re 
sulted  in  keeping  the  people  in  ignorance.  But  re 
member,  please,  that  learning  is  indigenous  among 
the  Arab  peoples,  who  are  in  subjection  to  the  Oth- 
man  Turks,  a  clever,  astute  race,  just  beginning  to 
emerge  from  its  mediaeval  dimness  of  perception. 
Given  time  and  non-interference  from  the  grabbing 
European  Powers,  Christian  so-called,  I  have  faith 
to  believe  they  have  it  in  them  to  rise  to  a  worthy 
place  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  and  given 


48       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

also  the  opportunity,  I  would  like  to  be  one  of  the 
many  Christians  who  are  like  minded,  to  help  my 
native  land  awake." 

"But  I  thought,"  I  objected,  "that  you  were 
anxious  to  be  under  Christian  rule." 

"We  are,  but  with  religious  freedom,  an  open 
uncensored  press,  educated  officials  ruling  after 
modern  methods  and  a  representative  government 
in  which  we  Christians  shall  have  a  part,  I  believe 
we  may  have  a  stable  national  government  irrespec 
tive  of  creed."  I  have  tried  to  give  you  as  near 
a  verbatim  report  of  this  extraordinary  conversation 
as  possible,  for  it  shows  how  little  outsiders  know  of 
actual  conditions  in  the  Near  East. 

One  Day. 

A  few  days  ago  there  came  an  invitation  from 
Doctor  Otis,  the  one  who  opened  the  only  Sanato 
rium  for  tuberculosis  in  this  part  of  the  world.  We 
were  all  asked,  Mr.  Whitelaw  included,  that  we 
might  meet  the  new  American  Consul  General.  I 
was  keen  about  going,  as  Doctor  Rahmy,  as  every 
one  affectionately  calls  her,  has  done  a  unique  work, 
quite  alone,  and  being  in  the  process  of  remaking 
my  ideas  and  opinions,  I  was  desirous  of  seeing  if 
things  and  conditions  were  as  I  had  been  told.  I 
should  say  that  Dr.  Otis's  name  is  Mercy, — as 
though  her  mother  had  an  intuition  of  the  future 
calling  of  her  child  when  she  named  her,  and  the 
quick-witted  people  out  here  learned  that  Mercy 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       49 

meant  their  word  Rahmy,  so  she  is  never  known 
here  by  any  other  name  than  Dr.  Rahmy.  Is  it  not 
beautiful,  when  you  know  what  she  is  doing?  Her 
house  is  about  ten  or  fifteen  miles  this  side  of  Bey- 
rout,  and  as  we  had  been  asked  to  come  early  that 
we  might  inspect  the  Sanatorium  before  the  one 
o'clock  dinner,  we  started  betimes. 

The  drive  in  the  inverse  direction  over  the  same 
road  I  came  to  Trablus  by  in  the  spring,  seven 
months  ago,  was  as  full  of  enjoyment  as  though  I 
had  never  passed  that  way  before.  Everywhere  na 
ture  had  rehabilitated  herself  after  the  parched, 
dry  summer  when  not  a  drop  of  rain  fell  from  the 
1 2th  of  April  until  nearly  the  first  of  October,  which 
explains  why  there  are  so  many  dry  watercourses. 

The  hard  rains  had  eliminated  the  thick  coat  of 
dust  worn  by  the  olive  trees  all  summer  and  polished 
up  each  shining  silver-grey  leaf,  while  the  wayside 
grasses  and  flowers  already  look  up  expectantly.  I 
saw  the  mottled  leaves  of  the  cyclamens  peeping 
from  the  crannies  and  spreading  themselves  around 
their  clinging  places  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks.  In 
this  land  there  are  rocks  and  rocks  and  rocks,  as 
though  the  surplus  of  creation  had  been  dumped 
here.  A  pretty  bit  of  Syrian  folk  lore  says,  that 
when  God  created  the  world,  He  sifted  the  sand 
over  the  desert,  but  the  stones  one  sees  everywhere 
were  too  coarse  to  go  through  His  sieve,  so  He 
threw  them  out  over  Syria.  You  would  believe  it, 
too,  if  you  could  see  the  fells — terraces — where  they 


50       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

sow  wheat,  and  which  we  saw  being  ploughed.  The 
soil  is  covered  thick  in  most  places  with  small  stones 
the  size  of  my  fist,  and  one  wonders  how  anything 
can  grow  under  such  conditions.  And  yet  they  tell 
me  fair  crops  of  wheat,  barley  and  millet  are  raised. 

One  view  to-day  was  enchanting.  We  wound 
down  the  wonderful  road  with  its  corners  and  curves 
after  leaving  the  Kura  and  its  olive  trees,  through 
the  growing  town  of  Shikka,  passing  for  perhaps  a 
mile  through  a  straight  avenue  between  splendid 
market  gardens  and  orchards,  to  the  beautiful  bay 
at  the  foot  of  the  promontory  over  which  the  car 
riage  road  passes.  How  blue  the  sea  looked,  in  which 
the  white  sails  of  the  fishing  boats  just  come  to 
anchor  were  reflected  as  in  a  mirror.  Away  to  the 
north  the  coast  stretched  to  el  Mina  and  far  beyond, 
showing  old,  bald,  seamy  Mt.  Turbul  rising  seem 
ingly  from  the  water's  edge,  as  though  to  defy  man 
to  attempt  to  enter  its  territory,  and  to  protest 
against  the  invading  railroad  which  skirts  its  base 
to  push  eastward  towards  the  desert.  Cousin  David 
says  it  is  only  a  matter  of  a  very  few  years  ere 
that  same  railroad  arrives  at  for  the  present,  an  un 
named  terminus,  and  then  one  will  be  able  to  take 
a  train  marked  Bombay,  via  Horns,  Palmyra,  Bag 
dad  and  Karatchi.  But  before  that  happens  it  will 
be  possible  to  entrain  at  Trablus  and  get  out  at 
Paris  or  Vladivostock ! 

Once  more  we  traversed  that  wonder  of  a  road 
carved  on  the  side  of  the  mountainous  cliff  over  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       51 

sea,  down  the  other  side  through  a  progressive  town 
called  el  Batrun,  with  a  Crusader  castle  and  attrac 
tive  modern  houses  with  red  tile  roofs.  At  one 
point  we  passed  many  fig  orchards,  with  their  mis 
shapen  trees  looking  as  though  the  wind  never  blew 
but  from  one  direction.  Then  over  a  splendid 
sweep  of  road  showing  the  beautiful  town  of.  Ams- 
hit,  where  the  sister  of  Ernest  Renan  is  buried,  while 
away  before  us  sprawled  Jebail,  the  Byblos  of  the 
Greeks  and  Gebal  of  the  Bible.  It  too,  has  a 
wonderful  castle  as  well  as  a  fine  cathedral  church 
built  by  the  Crusaders. 

As  we  had  been  but  an  hour  or  so  coming  thus 
far,  Cousin  David  said  he  would  like  to  stop  and  see 
a  man  with  whom  he  has  dealings  in  silk.  And 
here  I  had  the  surprise  of  my  life.  We  had  left 
the  car  with  Deebna,  the  chauffeur,  and  strolled 
down  a  road  leading  to  the  sea,  when  we  came  upon 
a  most  splendid  house,  quite  the  finest  I  have  seen 
out  here.  It  plainly  was  somebody's  home,  for 
there  was  a  high  picket  fence  in  front  of  a  gorgeous 
garden  of  flowers,  with  a  mosaic  walk  through  the 
middle  leading  up  to  a  green  front  door.  Betty  and 
I  stopped  and  poked  our  faces  between  the  pickets 
and  gazed  and  looked  at  the  exquisite  flowers  and 
feathery,  towering  pepper  trees.  While  we  were  thus 
occupied  that  green  door  opened  and  a  lady  came 
out  with  a  basket  and  garden  shears.  She  did  not 
see  us  at  first,  but  when  she  came  towards  a  splendid 
bush  of  La  France  roses  near  the  fence,  she  spied 


52       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

us  and  said,  "May  I  give  you  a  rose?"  I  did  not 
answer  but  tore  into  that  garden  crying,  "It  is  Kate 
Morgan!  Where  under  the  sun?"  And  she, — 
"Rachel  Locke!  Have  the  skies  fallen?"  Mother, 
imagine  it,  my  room-mate  at  college  out  here.  I 
knew  it  all  the  time,  but  had  somehow  got  it  into 
my  head  that  she  had  gone  to  India.  Well,  we  did 
not  go  any  farther,  but  sat  on  a  balcony  where  we 
could  watch  for  Cousin  David,  and  at  the  same 
time  see  almost  the  rest  of  God's  world  spread  out 
like  an  immense  picture,  with  Beyrout  from  across 
a  wide  bay,  stretching  its  lazy  length  into  the  sea. 
And  what  is  Kate  doing  here?  As  near  as  I 
could  find  out,  whatever  her  hand  finds  to  do,  and 
that  seems  to  be  many  things.  We  saw  her  schools, 
and  industrial  work  and  then  Cousin  David  came 
and  we  had  to  go,  but  not  till  she  had  my  promise 
for  a  week-end  visit  very  soon. 

When  we  got  to  Aintain  we  found  the  guests  as 
sembled,  and  it  was  a  joy  to  see  that  doctor  woman, 
Mercy  personified,  going  from  bed  to  bed  greeting 
the  poor,  dying  consumptives.  It  seems  some  of 
the  people  are  dreadfully  afraid  of  tuberculosis, 
and  it  is  a  terrible  thing,  and  in  their  terror  lest  the 
others  of  the  household  get  it,  they  isolate  those 
so  afflicted,  making  them  comfortable  enough,  but 
alone  sometimes  to  meet  the  last  awful  moment. 
They  are  often  placed  in  a  small  tent  in  a  pine  grove, 
if  one  is  at  hand,  and  there  left,  where  frequently 
they  improve  in  the  pure  air.  But  Doctor  Mercy 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       53 

could  not  have  that  go  on,  and  all  such  are  sought 
out  by  this  good  woman,  brought  here  and  lovingly 
cared  for  and  made  comfortable,  while  more  than 
one  has  been  restored  and  quite  cured.  One  of  the 
guests  asked  the  doctor  how  she  came  to  found  the 
Sanatorium,  and  she  held  us  spellbound  as  she  nar 
rated  a  wonderful  tale,  although  heart-breaking. 

Near  her  own  house  is  a  cave  inhabited  by  a  half 
demented  woman,  who  implicitly  believes  in  the 
protection  of  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  floor  of  her 
cave  she  has  divided  into  rooms  as  a  child  marks 
off  his  garden  with  white  pebbles.  There  is  a  sitting 
room  and  bedroom  and  tiny  kitchen  and  a  guest 
room,  in  which  she  placed  her  best  bed,  a  poor 
enough  mattress,  on  the  ground. 

"Then  I  prayed  to  St.  John  Baptist  to  send  me  a 
guest  because  I  was  so  lonely,"  the  poor  old  thing 
said.  "And  one  day  a  man  came  carrying  a  sick 
woman  on  his  back,  whom  he  placed  on  the  ground 
and  departed.  Oh,  'welcome,  welcome,'  I  said  and 
knew  that  my  prayers  had  been  answered.  But  my 
guest  did  not  heed  me,  but  wept  and  wailed,  'Ya 
ibny,  ya  ibny,  how  canst  thou  leave  thy  mother 
thus?'  I  soon  found  she  v;as  far  gone  with  the 
dreadful  sill  and  tried  to  comfort  her.  She  was 
very  weak,  and  I  made  her  sit  on  the  bed  In  my 
guest  room  and  drink  some  of  the  soup  I  had  for 
my  supper.  But  she  could  only  weep  and  say,  Ya 
ibny,  ya  ibny,  'oh,  my  son.'  And  then  I  told  her 
about  the  Good  Shepherd  I  had  heard  of  from  the 


54       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

doctor  lady,  and  how  He  said,  'I  shall  not  want.' 
But  my  guest  was  too  far  gone  to  listen  much,  I 
thought.  Just  before  the  dawning  of  the  morning, 
she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  listening  I  heard 
her  say,  'I  shall  not  want,'  and  with  a  sigh  gave 
back  her  spirit  to  God."  "Why  did  I  open  this 
place?"  the  doctor  added.  "The  need  and  desolation 
of  that  one  woman  built  this  sanatorium." 

Mr.  Whitelaw,  who  had  been  standing  near  me 
during  this  recital,  which  left  us  choked  and  silent, 
said,  as  if  to  himself,  "And  you  and  I  have  no  part 
nor  lot  in  these  stupendous  undertakings,"  and 
turned  abruptly  to  the  window,  from  which  the  sea 
could  be  seen  rolling  in  great  billows,  which  roared 
and  dashed  and  fumed  on  the  rocks  below. 

I  plucked  at  his  sleeve,  "Why  should  you  mind 
being  left  out  of  this?  You  are  not  a  doctor;  you 
have  other  work  in  the  world." 

"And  though  I  am  but  a  digger,  may  I  not  feel 
a  throb  of  pity  for  suffering  and  sorrow,  and  long 
to  alleviate  it  if  I  can?"  he  gravely  inquired. 

"Yes,  and  I  too  am  sad  over  such  conditions,  but 
I  love  my  native  land  where  there  is  sorrow  and  suf 
fering  also,  and  sick  foreigners  and  all  the  rest.  One 
may  work  along  these  same  lines  there,"  I  weakly 
answered. 

"Miss  Locke,  responsibility  is  a  solemn  word,  and 
I  very  much  fear  you  nor  I  have  a  right  to  say  we 
have  yet  found  it  in  our  dictionaries.  This  is  life, 
this  work,  don't  you  see  it?  I  have  had  a  lesson 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       55 

set  me  to-day,  which  I  must  con  well, — and  you 
too,"  he  added  softly  with  that  hidden  smile  as  he 
looked  at  me. 

Fortunately  Doctor  Mercy  led  the  way  back  to 
her  house  before  I  could  frame  a  reply  which  fit 
ted  the  occasion,  and  the  walk  was  a  silent  one.  I 
wonder,  wonder  about  so  many  things  out  here. 

The  dinner  was  sumptuous  which  was  awaiting 
us.  The  piece  de  resistance  was  a  lamb  cooked 
whole,  stuffed  with  chopped  meat,  rice  and  nuts  and 
raisins.  The  man  servant  dissected  it  without  knife 
or  fork,  a  la  arab,  a  most  curious  sight,  tearing  the 
flesh  with  much  skill.  The  meat  was  delicious  as 
was  a  preparation  of  rice  rolled  up  in  grape  leaf 
jackets  and  served  with  lebin,  the  "curds"  every 
one  eats  out  here. 

After  we  had  eaten  all  we  thought  possible,  there 
was  brought  in  the  national  dish  without  which  no 
feast  is  complete, — kibbie,  wheat  and  meat  pounded 
for  hours  in  a  great  stone  mortar  and  then  placed 
in  copper  trays,  layer-cake  fashion,  the  filling  being 
chopped  meat,  onions  and  pine  seeds,  with  quanti 
ties  of  semin,  the  native  butter,  after  which  it  is 
baked  in  a  public  oven.  You  cannot  think  how 
good  it  is.  And  mother,  as  I  ate  this  dish  they  told 
me  that  for  ages  the  people  of  this  land  have  eaten 
it.  King  Solomon  did,  for  he  speaks  of  it  in  his 
words  of  wisdom,  "Though  thou  shouldst  bray  a 
fool  in  a  mortar  among  wheat  with  a  pestle,  yet  will 


56       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

not  his  foolishness  depart  from  him."  Look  it  up 
in  Proverbs,  27:22. 

Speaking  of  food,  I  have  eaten  the  kind  of  pot 
tage  Esau  sold  his  birthright  for,  and  really,  it  is 
so  good  that  if  one  were  very  hungry,  "hungry  as 
a  hunter,"  which  was  poor  Esau's  state,  and  where 
that  saying  probably  originated,  such  a  vague  thing 
as  who  was  the  elder  of  a  pair  of  twins,  might  easily 
give  place  to  so  satisfying  a  dish  as  majeddra,  made 
of  lentils  mainly,  cooked  in  this  pure  olive  oil,  with 
onion  rags  on  top,— onions  sliced  across  and  quite 
thin  and  fried  crisp  and  brown.  This  eaten  with 
a  salad  with  fresh  mint  in  it  is  worth  a  twin's 
primogeniture. 

These  people  know  how  to  cook,  their  sweets 
especially,  are  amazingly  delicious.  The  most  de 
lectable  kind  is  a  sort  of  layer  cake  with  cream 
filling  baked  between  two  fires,  as  its  name  indicates, 
kenaifeh  b'naraln.  I  also  like  very  much  biiqlaweh. 
(When  you  see  a  q  in  a  word  transliterated  from  the 
Arabic  it  means  you  are  to  start  to  pronounce  it  k, 
and  somehow  manage  to  swallow  it  in  the  process  of 
enunciation,  calling  it  koff.)  This  latter  sweet  is 
another  sort  of  layer  cake,  as  many  as  thirty  layers 
of  tissue-paper  thin  pastry,  with  a  thick  one  at  the 
bottom  of  chopped  nuts  and  things.  It  is  most 
delicious.  We  had  some  to-day.  I  wish  I  could 
send  you  a  piece. 

The  other  day  Um  Fuad  came  to  call  and  out  of 
that  capacious  pocket  of  hers  drew  a  glass  jar  of 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       57 

what  must  have  dropped  down  from  the  angels' 
pantry,  for  I  am  sure  mortals  never  thought  of  tak 
ing  orange  petals  to  make  preserves.  You  cannot 
imagine  anything  nearer  nectar  than  these  eaten  hot, 
with  cream. 

There  is  just  room  left  in  my  second  Russia- 
leather  book  to  write  finis. 


The  world  knowcth  the  ignorance  of 
the  ignorant,  but  the  ignorant  knoweth 
not  that  the  wise  is  wise. — Arab  Prov 
erb. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

Thanksgiving  Night. 

How  did  I  ever  get  the  courage  to  put  myself 
where  I  could  not  get  home  for  Thanksgiving?  I 
did  not  reckon  on  the  holidays  when  I  bound  myself 
for  three  years  out  here.  There  are  just  twenty- 
seven  more  months  before  I  sail  away  for  HOME 
and  YOU.  Yes,  I  am  as  homesick  as  I  ever  want 
to  be.  Oh,  how  I  have  missed  you  to-day.  It  seems 
so  far  to  America.  We  have  had  a  celebration  and 
it  is  time  to  go  to  bed,  and  you  have  not  yet  had 
dinner.  We  observed  the  day  in  the  dear  home  way, 
as  near  as  we  could,  but  it  wasn't  home  no  matter 
how  hard  we  tried  to  make  it  seem  so.  We  all  knew 
we  were  aliens  in  a  land  which  had  never  kept 
Thanksgiving,  because  it  has  no  reason  to  be  very 
thankful  for  much  of  anything,  so  far  as  one  can 
see,  when  our  point  of  view  is  taken. 

The  Americans  take  turns  having  the  dinner,  and 
this  year  it  was  at  the  Winthrops',  where  we  went 
after  a  service  in  the  chapel.  The  Winthrop  house 
is  like  all  houses  here, — a  big  central  court  with  the 
rooms  opening  out  of  it.  There  were  so  many  of 
us  that  the  table  was  laid  in  the  court,  and  when 
we  marched  in,  small  Ted  Winthrop  leading  with 

61 


62       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

his  drum,  it  was  as  though  we  had  stepped  into,  oh, 
that  blessed  America  where  you  are  and  I  wish  I 
was  this  minute.  There  was  a  runner  down  the 
centre  of  the  table  of  Dennison  crepe  paper  with 
flags  and  shields  on  it,  a  doily  at  each  plate  to  match, 
and  standing  at  attention  in  the  glasses  was  a  ser 
viette  folded  to  display  the  flag. 

When  we  reached  our  places  and  stood  for  the 
blessing,  some  one  started  "My  Country  'Tis  of 
Thee."  I  glanced  up  after  swallowing  hard  two  or 
three  times,  and  if  I  had  not  been  so  busy  trying  to 
make  my  voice  less  wobbly  so  as  to  carry  the  tune, 
at  the  same  time  mopping  away  the  salt,  homesick 
tears,  I  could  have  laughed,  the  grown-ups  looked  so 
tragic.  The  men  mostly  gazed  ceilingward,  and  the 
women  at  their  plates  with  an  air  of  determination 
to  somehow  get  through  without  breaking  down,  for 
every  one  was  furtively  wiping  away  tears.  Those 
blessed  folk,  home  lovers  every  one,  but  humanity 
lovers  and  Jesus  lovers  a  thousandfold  more.  The 
last  word  sung,  no  one  stirred  until  Dr.  Winthrop 
had  talked  with  God  about  our  home  land  in  a  very 
tender,  longing  voice,  asking  blessings  for  "all  in 
authority,"  not  forgetting  "His  Majesty,  the  King 
of  Great  Britain,"  for  Mr.  Whitelaw's  sake,  and  the 
Sultan  "of  the  land  in  which  we  live." 

Have  I  told  you  about  Mrs.  Winthrop?  She  is 
most  charming,  with  a  swarm  of  children,  the  eldest 
only  twelve.  She  is  a  graduate  of  Vassar,  too,  was 
valedictorian  of  her  class,  I  believe,  and  has  acquired 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       63 

the  Arabic  in  a  remarkable  way  they  tell  me.  Her 
housekeeping  is  something  beautiful,  and  her  cook 
ery  delicious  and  toothsome.  The  dinner  was  ex 
cellent  to-day.  Let  me  tell  you  about  it.  There  was 
a  big  fowl  she  raised  herself  and  cranberry  jelly 
(tinned),  sweet  potatoes  (tinned),  corn  (tinned), 
and  salad  out  of  her  garden.  She  had  made  with 
her  own  hands  mince  and  pumpkin  (tinned)  pies, 
and  when  her  man  servant  was  bringing  them  to  the 
table  he  tripped  on  the  steps  leading  from  the  kitchen 
and  dropped  both  of  them  and  they  were  irrevo 
cably  smashed !  You  should  have  heard  the  men 
groan  when  she  came  running  back  after  investigat 
ing  the  crash,  and  announced  the  awful  news.  Then 
she  as  quickly  disappeared  again  and  after  we  had 
waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  she  slipped  into  her 
place  and  in  came  the  man,  with  a  flaming  plum 
pudding  (tinned),  which  she  had  kept  in  her  store 
room  against  an  emergency.  We  all  cheered  and 
enjoyed  the  Huntly  and  Palmer  production  to  the 
limit  of  the  last  crumb. 

Dinner  over,  we  played  games, — the  old  home 
kind,  and  had  an  uproarious  time.  Fancy  playing 
"Going  to  Jerusalem,"  with  the  real  Jerusalem  just 
around  the  corner.  I  never  realized  before  what  a 
purely  American  feast  Tranksgiving  is  until  to-day. 
Coming  home,  Mr.  Whitelaw  said,  "I  like  the  way 
you  Americans  do  things.  We  feel  thankful  too,  in 
England,  but  somehow  we  never  do  as  you  have 
done  to-day." 


64       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  answered  him.  "But  when 
our  forefathers,  who  were  English  you  remember, — 
inaugurated  this  custom,  there  was  great  reason  to 
give  thanks.  The  men  who  made  our  nation  were 
not  cradled  in  soft  beds." 

"Is  that  the  reason  these  Americans  out  here  are 
made  of  such  unusual  stuff?" 

"Perhaps.  They  are  certainly  rare,  and — holy," 
under  my  breath. 

Night. 

I  am  always  interested  in  coming  home  from  the 
office  in  watching  the  men  at  the  half-way  place 
where  the  tram  cars  pass  on  the  switch,  prepare  for 
sunset  prayers.  Islam,  whatever  defects  we  may 
find  in  it,  is  certainly  not  ashamed  of  itself.  To 
pray  is  not  only  a  duty,  but  a  part  of  its  being. 
There  is  a  wide  platform  under  some  Pride  of  India 
trees,  a  solidly  built  thing,  with  a  tank  of  running 
water  for  the  obligatory  ablutions,  without  which 
no  man  presents  himself  before  his  God.  And  I 
see  how  they  clean  out  their  mouths,  too,  before  be 
ginning  to  pray.  Then,  shoes  left  behind,  they  stand 
or  kneel  on  their  coat  or  girdle  in  lieu  of  a  rug, 
their  faces  toward  Mecca,  quite  regardless  of  on 
lookers.  It  is  always  impressive,  this  strict  observ 
ance  of  the  times  of  prayer. 

And  speaking  of  water,  I  have  not  yet  told  you 
about  that  of  Trablus,  which  seems  to  me  more  or 
less  of  a  joke,  it  is  so  unreasonably  impure.  No  one 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       65 

of  the  foreign  residents  dares  use  it  before  boiling 
or  at  least  passing  it  through  a  filter.  You  cannot 
imagine  anything  more  primitive  than  the  method 
by  which  it  is  introduced  into  the  houses.  The  foun 
tain  head  is  pure  enough,  but  that  is  some  hours 
from  the  city,  and  it  is  allowed  to  meander  in  an 
open  aqueduct — don't  imagine  anything  canalized 
like  the  Rhone  in  Switzerland,  but  more  as  a  brook 
flows  through  fields  and  by  the  roadside,  until  it 
nears  the  city,  where  it  crosses  the  river  by  means 
of  an  arched  aqueduct,  very  ancient,  dating  prob 
ably  from  Roman  times.  Once  across,  it  disappears 
underground  to  flow  through  a  stone  ditch  and  be 
distributed  in  birkeys  in  the  houses  into  which  it 
flows,  in  and  out.  There  is  always  the  sound  of 
running  water  wherever  you  go. 

There  are  several  openings  into  the  underground 
water  ways  called  becyara,  "wells,"  and  one  day 
when  we  were  out  walking  back  of  the  castle  we 
found  quite  a  crowd  collected  around  one,  which 
presently  passed  near  us,  surrounding  a  weeping 
woman  carrying  her  little  daughter,  who  had  fallen 
in  and  had  just  been  found  after  hours  of  search. 

The  other  day  the  water  was  cut  off  practically 
all  day  while  they  hunted  for  a  donkey  which  had 
managed  to  stumble  in.  They  found  it  at  last,  but 
oh  my,  think  what  we  drank  before  the  beast  was 
missed,  a  matter  of  three  days,  I  believe.  But  one 
might  as  well  be  philosophical  about  it,  for  when  a 
break  in  the  aforesaid  ditch  occurs,  a  donkey-load 


66       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

of  manure  is  dumped  in  to  seek  out  and  clog  up  the 
breach.  We  can  always  tell  when  repairs  are  on, 
by  the  barnyard  taste  in  the  water!  And  New 
Yorkers  eschew  Croton  water  and  buy  bottled  stuff, 
deeming  the  former  not  clean  enough! 

An  Evening. 

To-day  we  had  a  donkey  ride,  even  C.  D.  (here 
after  C.  D.  instead  of  Cousin  David,  which  con 
sumes  time  to  write  out  fully)  went,  and  Caryl,  who 
has  a  beautiful  Bagdad  donkey,  white  as  milk  with 
a  gait  as  easy  as  the  sway  of  a  rocking  chair,  was 
grand  marshal  and  led  the  way.  I  rode  a  mouse- 
coloured  one,  the  kind  with  a  cross  on  its  back, — 
darker  hair  along  the  back  bone  and  across  the 
shoulders  making  a  perfect  cross,  which  tradition 
says  appeared  after  Joseph  took  the  Virgin  Mary 
and  her  little  Son  on  one  to  Egypt. 

There  was  a  long  row  of  us  trotting  briskly  on 
the  broad  carriage  road  making  for  the  Beddaweh, 
a  pool  wherein  is  a  great  quantity  of  sacred  fish. 
Just  why  they  are  sacred  no  one  seems  to  know, 
save  that  a  vow  was  made  in  the  dim  past  that  the 
fish  in  that  pool  were  never  to  be  eaten.  It  is  con 
sidered  a  sin  to  catch  them,  and  if  anyone  should 
be  so  wicked  as  to  purloin  one,  it  would  fly  out  of 
the  frying  pan  straight  to  Mohammed !  The  result 
of  this  belief  is  there  are  so  many  that  they  crowd 
each  other,  and  are  as  fat  as  butter.  We  fed  them 
hammus,  "pulse,"  which  they  almost  ate  from  our 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       67 

hands,  they  are  so  tame.  We  saw  many  persons  go 
down  to  the  pond  and  fill  little  cans  with  the  water 
to  take  home  to  some  sick  member  of  the  family 
probably.  We  watched  a  woman  tie  a  strip  of  cloth 
torn  from  the  garment  of  her  sick  baby  to  an  iron 
bar  in  the  window  of  the  near-by  mosque  dedicated 
to  the  saint  who  vowed  the  fish,  in  hopes  that  virtue 
might  pass  with  a  healing  touch  to  that  tiny  sick  bed, 
and  then  stooping,  possess  herself  of  a  handful  of 
earth  from  under  the  window  to  carry  home  in  a 
handkerchief  to  place  near  the  sick  child  or  to  smear 
its  body  with  it.  She  was  using  what  knowledge  she 
had  to  cure  her  child,  poor  thing. 

Somehow  the  sunshine  did  not  seem  as  bright 
after  she  turned  away.  Her  trouble  stood  between 
me  and  its  shining.  But  Miss  Delight  ran  after  her 
and  learned  where  she  lived,  and  promised  to  send 
Dr.  Saleeby  to  see  her  daughter.  She  will  go  too, 
I  am  sure,  before  she  has  her  supper,  that  she  may 
render  what  service  she  can  to  the  mother  and  child. 
But  you  should  have  seen  the  woman  try  to  kiss 
Miss  Delight's  feet,  she  was  so  grateful.  Am  I  get 
ting  missionary  inoculation?  More  and  more  I  am 
finding  what  their  errand  is,  and  it  looms  large  and 
important,  and  not  a  bit  is  I  used  to  think. 

Entry. 

I  am  not  making  records  these  days.  We  are  so 
overwhelmed  with  oil  and  olive  shipments,  and 


68       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

oranges  just  beginning,  that  when  night  comes  I  go 
to  bed  instead  of  sitting  up  to  write  for  you,  dearest. 

Christmas  Night  in  Jcbail. 

I  must  write  while  the  glamour  is  still  upon  every 
thing,  of  this  my  first  Christmas  in  the  real  Christ 
mas  land.  Kate  Morgan  begged  so  hard  for  me  to 
spend  it  with  her,  pleading  loneliness,  that  I  came 
two  days  ago,  in  time  for  all  the  festivities.  She  is 
a  wonderful  person,  Kate  is ;  so  like  a  child  at  heart, 
and  loving  and  preserving  the  old  traditions  which 
cluster  about  this  joyous  occasion.  The  children 
have  been  keyed  up  for  weeks,  impatiently  waiting 
the  hanging-up-stocking  time,  experiencing  delicious, 
anticipatory  thrills  over  the  mysterious  visit  of 
Santa  Claus,  all  the  while  busily  preparing  their 
gifts  for  each  other  with  much  secrecy  and  whis 
pered  consultations  with  Kate  and  their  teachers. 

And  at  last  the  day  came.  When  I  arrived  I 
found  a  very  excited  household,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  that  supper  was  eaten  by  the  joyous  little 
folk.  Along  about  seven  o'clock  the  great  event  was 
ushered  in.  The  children  were  made  ready  for  bed, 
when  away  off  dressing-room  way  we  heard  singing. 
Nearer  it  came,  and  out  went  the  lights  with  the 
entrance  of  those  delightsome  children  in  their 
nighties,  each  bearing  a  lighted  candle,  stepping 
softly  with  slippered  feet,  and  singing  that  quaint  old 
carol,  "I  Saw  Three  Ships  Come  Sailing  In."  You 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       69 

should  have  heard  the  swing  of  it,  the  lilt  of  it  in 
the  line  "On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning." 

Around  and  around  they  went,  singing  carol  after 
carol,  at  last  being  deflected  into  their  sleeping 
rooms,  but  not  till  each  one  had  paused  to  hand  her 
stocking  to  Kate  with  a  courtesy,  who  pinned  it  to  a 
line  stretched  across  one  corner  of  the  court. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  those  stockings,  each 
one  duly  labelled  with  its  owner's  name,  writ  large 
and  in  English,  for  Santa  is  almost  two  thousand 
years  old  and  has  poor  eyesight,  of  course!  Some 
of  the*  names  reached  the  length  of  the  leg,  others 
were  ornamented  with  flowers  and  leaves  done  in 
colour,  and  some  in  both  Arabic  and  English.  After 
the  last  mite  was  tucked  in  her  little  white  bed,  we 
grown-ups  got  busy,  and  when  in  the  morning  the 
owners  explored  that  collection  of  hosiery,  not  a 
frown  was  seen,  for  every  one  was  joyfully  glad  at 
what  was  found  therein. 

It  was  some  time  near  I  A.  M.  when  Kate  and 
I  crept  off  to  bed.  But  I  did  not  want  to  sleep.  I 
could  not  spare  the  time.  I  wanted  to  be  lonesome 
for  you,  darling  mother,  for  I  know  you  missed  me 
too.  I  thought  of  the  ten  months  spent  in  this  far 
away  land — months  of  work  and  experience,  and — 
yes,  growth,  I  think.  I  say  this  last  reluctantly,  for 
I  seem  to  have  been  living  in  an  unreal  world,  and 
to  have  been  preparing  for  an  indefinable  something. 
I  remembered  as  I  lay  awake  in  the  darkness  the  day 
when  I  forgot  to  blow  out  the  match,  and  was  saved 


70       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

from  some  dreadful  fate  by  Mr.  Whitelaw.  And 
then  I  wondered  about  him,  why  he  happened  to  be 
in  that  particular  spot  in  a  crowded  Syrian  bazaar 
the  first  time  I  saw  him,  and  if  he  had  been  listen 
ing  to  the  "waits"  in  England,  whither  he  had  gone 
to  spend  the  holidays  and  to  purchase  necessary  sup 
plies,  and  if  he  gave  any  of  us  out  here  a  thought. 
He  is  a  nice  sort  of  person  to  have  around,  with  a 
way  of  making  every  one  comfortable  without  being 
the  least  bit  obtrusive. 

I  had  just  settled  down  to  sleep  when  there  stole 
on  my  ear  more  carol  singing,  "Nowel,  Nowel, 
Nowel,  Nowel,  Born  Is  the  King  of  Israel,"  and  lo, 
I  was  waking  and  not  dropping  off  to  sleep.  Those 
blessed  maidens  of  Kate's  were  singing  before  my 
door,  and  out  on  the  balconies  under  the  stars,  that 
ever-new  old  Gospel,  "Hark  the  Herald  Angels 
Sing,"  that  "Christ  was  born  of  Mary."  Oh, 
mother,  and  in  this  land,  this  very  country  is  the 
one  where  "there  were  shepherds  abiding  with  their 
sheep."  I  cannot  realize  it,  that  I  myself,  am  the 
one  who  is  here.  I  jumped  up  to  follow  to  the 
chapel  as  soon  as  possible,  for  those  old  familiar 
melodies  floated  about  me  like  a  new  Kyrie, — or  was 
I  listening  to  the  first  one? 

Oh,  but  the  joyous  part  for  the  little  ones  was 
when  we  were  back  upstairs,  the  children  seated  on 
the  floor  exploring  their  stockings.  No  words  can 
picture  the  delight  of  those  motherless  little  ones 
over  some  dolls  some  one  sent  Kate,  which  arrived 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       71 

in  the  nick  of  time.  One  little  six-year-old  fastened 
her  eyes  on  her  stocking  and  the  dolly  sticking  out 
of  the  top,  speechless  at  first,  then  stretching  out 
her  arms  shaking  with  eagerness,  exclaimed,  "Give 
her  to  me,"  her  voice  quivering  with  mother  love  as 
she  clasped  the  imitation  baby  to  her  beating  heart. 
Of  course  there  were  sweets  and  nuts  and  oranges, 
and  as  a  very  special  treat,  an  apple,  imported,  for 
each  little  tot.  And  there  were  pencils  and  pads  and 
their  little  gifts  to  each  other,  simple  and  inex 
pensive,  but  each  little  heart  was  satisfied,  and  eyes 
shone  and  cheeks  glowed  as  one  after  another  called 
out,  "Oh,  see,"— "Look,"— "Oh  my,"  this  last  a  real 
squeal  of  delight.  After  the  excited  voices  quieted 
down  a  little,  Kate  said: 

"Children,  what  does  this  day  mean?"  One  hand 
waved  violently  among  the  others. 

"You  may  answer,  Temam." 

"It's  a  give  and  take  day,  mother." 

"Yes,  Temam,  but  how?" 

"We  give  because  God  gave  us  His  most  blessed 
Son  to-day,  and  we  take  because  He  gives."  Kate 
glanced  across  the  eager  faces  to  me  like  a  proud 
mother. 

"And  you,  little  Zehra?" 

"It  is  the  day  when  Jesus  was  laid  in  the  manger 
in  Bethlehem." 

"And  you,  littlest  one,"  indicating  fascinating 
Nebeha. 


JT2       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

"It's  'I  love  you'  day,"  running  into  Kate's  out 
stretched  arms. 

"So  it  is,  you  blessed  child,"  which  is  a  good 
place  to  stop  in  my  narrative, — only  what  do  you 
suppose  I  found  in  my  stocking?  I  brought  all  my 
packages  with  me  from  Trablus.  Your  precious 
face !  How  I  love  it.  The  nose  is  almost  kissed  off 
already,  so  be  prepared  to  send  a  new  one  every 
month.  Oh  yes,  I  had  another  Christmas  gift.  A 
book,  which  was  postmarked  London  and  contained 
a  bit  of  pasteboard  with  John  Denise  Whitelaw  en 
graved  on  one  side  and  "Yuletide  greetings"  written 
on  the  other. 

This  afternoon  Kate  took  me  to  see  a  little  new 
baby,  swaddled  up  like  that  One  down  in  Bethlehem 
you  used  to  tell  me  about.  If  this  one  to-day  could 
have  talked,  this  is  what  she  might  have  said:  "It 
is  a  queer  place  I  have  come  to,  and  most  uncom 
fortable.  In  the  first  place  no  one  seemed  very  glad 
to  see  me.  They  just  kept  still  when  some  one  said 
I  was  a  girl,  whatever  that  means.  I  suppose  I'll 
find  out  if  I  live  long  enough.  I  am  all  wrapped  up 
in  salt — I  wonder  why  they  did  that  ? — and  have  been 
ever  since  I  got  here,  the  day  before  yesterday.  All 
but  my  face,  which  was  sponged  off  with  nice  cool 
water,  which  felt  so  good.  I  heard  that  woman  say, 
who  seemed  to  be  the  head  of  the  reception  com 
mittee  the  night  I  came,  she  was  going  to  give  me 
a  bath  to-day.  I  hope  she  keeps  her  word.  I  seem 
to  be  sleepy  a  great  deal  of  the  time.  But  now  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       73 

then  I  need  to  exercise  my  lungs,  so  I  cry  all  I  can. 
Only  every  time  I  do  that,  that  woman  they  call 
my  mother  makes  me  drink  some  milk,  which  I  like 
rather  well.  Sometimes  I  cry  because  I  have  put 
too  much  of  it  in  my  tummy,  and  sometimes  not 
enough,  or  they  forgot  how  long  it  was  since  the 
last  time." 

Later.  "What  do  you  suppose  they  have  done 
now?  Made  me  a  living  mummy.  My  arms  and 
hands  are  bound  to  my  sides  with  a  long  strip  of 
cloth,  and  I  am  laid  on  my  back  in  a  cradle  and 
bound  fast  in  that.  I  can  only  move  my  head  a 
little  from  side  to  side.  When  I  cry,  my  mother 
kneels  on  the  floor  and  feeds  me  milk,  and  sways 
my  cradle  back  and  forth,  after  I  can  hold  no  more, 
until  I  drop  off  to  sleep." 

Don't  you  feel  sorry  for  the  little  mite?  Swad 
dling  bands  instead  of  soft,  orris-scented  flannels 
and  darling  white  robes.  Customs  do  not  change 
here,  and  it  is  probable  the  Bethlehem  Boy  was  sub 
jected  to  the  same  treatment  as  this  one  I  saw  this 
Christmas  day. 

Home  Again,  and  Hard  at  Work. 

I  have  been  thinking  much  of  late  about  how  good 
one  must  be  to  be  a  missionary.  The  standard  is 
high  among  these  I  know.  Their  ideals  are  lofty. 
Their  devotion  unassailable.  All  this  is  apparent. 
What  I  want  next  to  get  at  is  their  deep-down  mo 
tive.  Not  an  obedience  to  any  supposedly  binding 


74       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

command,  not  a  mere  sentimental  reason,  but  why 
it  is  possible  for  these  remarkable  people  to  desire 
to  stay  as  long  as  life  lasts  outside  their  own  coun 
try.  What  is  the  compelling  force  which  leads  men 
and  women  to  exile  and  hard  work?  What  is  back 
of  it  all?  Surely  not  fame  nor  riches — quite  the 
opposite,  even  I  can  see. 

I  was  given  a  glimpse  to-day,  and  yes,  perhaps  my 
questioning  is  answered.  I  ran  over  to  the  school 
this  afternoon  for  a  smell  of  the  roses  in  that  garden 
of  delights  and  found  Miss  Delight  cradling  a  sick 
child  in  her  arms.  The  little  one  has  been  and  still 
is  quite  ill,  and  Miss  D.  has  been  up  several  nights 
with  her,  but  never  relaxing  her  tasks  during  the 
day  in  consequence. 

I  tried  to  induce  her  to  let  me  relieve  her  for  a 
while,  and  she  go  out  for  a  small  "smell  of  the 
air,"  as  a  walk  is  called. 

"No,  Rachel,  this  is  my  job.  Hanny  needs  just 
me  until  she  is  well,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"Aiweh,  my  teacher,"  reaching  up  a  little  hot  hand 
to  the  dearly  beloved  face. 

"And  do  you  love  your  job?"  I  asked  softly. 

"Why  child,  my  job  is  love,  and  nothing  but  love," 
and  I  could  see  her  arms  strain  closer  to  her  breast 
this  little  Syrian  child,  she  enwrapped  in  unstinted 
affection. 

Do  you  see,  mother?  I  have  found  the  main 
spring,  the  dynamic  of  missions,  which  I  suppose 
every  one  but  myself  knew  long  ago.  I  am  afraid 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       75 

I  did  not  want  to  know  very  much.  "We  love 
because  He  first  loved  us."  I  see  now,  it  is  love  and 
only  love.  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  ever  attain  to 
real  heights  in  Christian  experience  ? 

I  have  much  to  learn,  much  to  unlearn.     And 
where  will  I  land? 


Guard  faith  from  doubt,  for  doubt 
corrupts  faith  as  salt  vitiates  honey. — 
Arab  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

I  have  never  told  you  about  some  calls  I  made 
with  Kate  Morgan  once,  when  I  was  spending  a 
week-end  with  her,  and  saw  the  inside  of  things 
where  there  is  little  of  foreign  influence.  We  went 
to  houses  not  furnished  with  French  tables  and 
American  alarm  clocks.  There  was  in  one  place  a 
sweet-voiced,  tender-eyed  old  woman,  who  could  no 
longer  leave  her  bed,  living  with  her  son  and  his 
wife  in  one  room,  but  which  was  spotlessly  clean. 

There  was  only  one  thing  in  that  home,  the  dear 
old  soul  we  went  to  see.  She  was  seated  on  the 
bed  spread  on  the  floor,  her  face  brown  from  ex 
posure  to  the  sun  and  her  limbs  crippled  with  rheu 
matism,  but  her  heart  was  tender  and  glad.  I  no 
ticed  how  affectionately  she  greeted  my  companion, 
who  seated  herself  beside  her  on  the  floor,  which 
was  covered  with  a  coarse  rush  mat,  and  saw  how 
her  stiff  ringers  clutched  the  skirt  of  Kate's  dress 
as  though  fearing  she  might  lose  her. 

"Fareedeh,  do  you  suffer  much?"  Kate  gently 
asked. 

"Praise  be  to  Allah,  I  can  bear  it,  I  can  bear  it," 
was  her  reverent  reply  with  uplifted  eyes. 

They  chatted  awhile,  Kate  telling  her  all  the 
news  about  town,  and  then  opened  her  pocket  Testa- 

79 


80       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

merit  and  began  to  read  to  her,  saying,  "Listen  now, 
while  I  give  you  a  word  from  the  Book."  Presently 
they  repeated  together  the  twenty-third  Psalm,  Fa- 
reedeh  with  hands  clasped  on  her  breast.  Of  course 
we  had  to  drink  a  tiny  cup  of  the  daughter's 
delicious  coffee  without  which  no  caller  is  ever  al 
lowed  to  depart,  and  then  went  to  see  Um  Nimr, 
followed  by  M'a  es  salaamy,  "go  in  peace,"  repeated 
many  times. 

Um  Nimr  (the  mother  of  Leopard)  was  at  her 
loom  weaving  a  very  pretty  cotton  fabric.  Many 
women  have  looms  in  their  houses,  and  turn  out 
some  lovely  silk  material  for  underwear  for  their 
own  use. 

"Welcome,  welcome,"  she  exclaimed.  "You  have 
come  in  an  acceptable  time,"  advancing  to  meet  us. 
"May  it  please  God,  you  are  in  good  health." 

"Thank  God,  and  thou?" 

"HumdiUah,  thank  God." 

By  this  time  we  were  seated  on  cushions  on  the 
floor,  a  surprisingly  more  comfortable  way  to  sit 
than  on  awkward  chairs.  Then  again  our  hostess 
began,  placing  her  hand  over  her  heart  before  touch 
ing  her  forehead  with  her  fingers,  "Keif  hal  sahti- 
kum?"  "What  is  the  state  of  your  health?"  And 
again  the  reply,  "HumdiUah,  thank  God." 

After  numberless  questions  about  every  one  in 
Kate's  establishment,  my  relatives  in  America  and 
if  I  was  married  or  going  to  be  and  how  old  I  was, 
we  really  began  to  visit.  At  least  Kate  did. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       81 

"Oh,  Um  Nimr,  what  is  that  book  on  thy  loom  ?" 

"That  is  my  New  Testament.  I  have  just  finished 
reading  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  for  the  first  time," 
said  with  much  pride.  "Think  of  me  ya  sitt" 
(oh  lady),  turning  to  me,  Kate  helping  me  out 
when  I  could  not  understand,  "learning  to  read 
when  I  am  a  grandmother.  But  when  I  became  a 
Christian,  I  knew  I  must  be  able  to  read  my  Bible, 
and  while  it  is  slow  work,  I  am  getting  on." 

Does  not  that  strike  you  as  being  something 
worth  while,  the  helping  a  woman  along  in  years 
to  learn  to  read  ?  And  does  it  not  show  what  splen 
did  material  Kate  has  to  expend  her  energies  upon? 
It  made  a  great  impression  on  me,  the  sight  of  a 
Bible  before  a  woman  on  her  loom. 

Kate  also  took  me  to  call  on  some  of  her  Mos 
lem  friends.  I  had  not  been  in  a  harem  before  and 
was  prepared  for  bolts  and  winding  passages,  and 
screened  windows,  and  a  fat  eunuch  on  guard  at 
the  entrance.  This  is  what  actually  happened.  But 
first  let  me  tell  you  that  every  house  in  the  land, 
excepting,  of  course,  in  the  villages,  has  a  rigidly 
locked  and  guarded  entrance.  If  it  opens  directly 
on  the  street,  there  will  be  a  lock  or  simple  latch 
which  cannot  be  reached  from  the  outside,  but  is 
manipulated  by  a  cord  or  wire  connected  with  the 
kitchen,  when  a  would-be  guest  or  member  of  the 
family  sends  a  summons  to  open  by  means  of  the 
resounding  knocker.  If  the  house  is  more  preten 
tious  and  has  ground  around  it,  then  you  enter 


82       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

through  a  portal  in  a  high  wall  after  announcing 
your  presence  to  the  bowwab  (porter)  by  two  or 
three  taps  with  the  knocker. 

In  response  a  voice  within  cries,  "Meen"  (who 
is  it?)  You  reply,  "Ana"  (I),  and  hurrying  foot 
steps  of  sandal-shod  feet  soon  bring  the  porter  to 
fling  wide  the  door  in  hearty  hospitality. 

The  house  we  went  to  that  day  was  surrounded 
by  a  luxuriant  garden  of  fruits  and  flowers,  and  as 
we  approached  it  through  an  avenue,  mosaic  paved, 
bordered  by  orange  and  pomegranate  trees,  our 
hostess  awaited  us  on  a  veranda  overrun  with  roses 
and  yellow  jessamine.  She  was  clad  in  a  flowing 
robe  of  blue,  which  colour  seems  to  be  a  passion 
with  everybody.  I  fancy  it  may  be  because  they 
have  such  wonderful  blue  skies  so  much  of  the  time. 
They  often  say  samawcy,  "heaven's  colour"  when 
they  mean  blue.  In  this  case  it  was  very  pretty 
contrasted  with  the  sheer,  snow-white  veil  of  our 
hostess. 

We  sat  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  cosy  living 
room,  which,  from  the  piles  of  bedding  I  observed 
at  one  side  I  imagine,  is  transformed  into  a  bed 
chamber  at  night.  Across  one  side  and  end  of 
this  rather  long  room  was  a  divan,  (pronounce  it 
deewan)  with  cushions  of  rare  Damascus  silk,  pro 
tected  by  spotless  white  covers  bordered  with  ex 
quisite  Irish  lace.  The  floor  had  a  first  covering  of 
rush  mats  on  which  were  laid  some  priceless  prayer 
rugs,  not  to  be  bought  at  Antine's  nor  Liberty's. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       83 

After  a  refreshing  drink  made  from  the  syrup  of 
unripe  grapes,  and  cooled  with  snow  from  Lebanon, 
we  adjourned  to  the  more  pretentious  parlour,  or 
salah,  reached  by  a  flight  of  stairs  on  the  outside  of 
the  house,  and  through  a  court,  from  which  in  pass 
ing  we  caught  glimpses  of  a  bed-chamber  furnished 
with  a  lace-bedecked  iron  bed,  and  a  chair  or  two 
of  the  usual  Austrian  bent-wood  things  one  sees 
everywhere. 

Several  women  relatives  came  in  arrayed  in  their 
best,  with  the  graceful,  gauzy  head  scarfs,  which 
they  draw  across  the  face  if  by  any  chance  a  strange 
man  appears.  I  noticed  a  book  or  two  on  the  table 
and  some  newspapers,  which  our  hostess,  a  bride 
of  a  few  months,  told  me  she  could  read.  "Tell 
me,"  I  asked,  "do  all  of  these  Moslem  women  read?" 

"Many  of  them,"  she  replied  in  her  pretty,  broken 
English  (Kate  taught  her).  "Our  family,  which  is 
so  large  as  to  really  be  called  a  tribe,  has  always 
held  woman  in  high  esteem.  We  have  been  taught 
to  read  and  to  know  our  right  hands  from  our 
left.  All  the  younger  women  not  only  read  and 
write,  but  some  have  been  sent  to  boarding  schools, 
and  both  young  and  old  are  beginning  to  think  for 
themselves." 

"How  do  you  feel  about  the  unveiling  of 
women?"  I  next  asked. 

"I  am  not  in  favor  of  it,  at  least  not  at  present. 
There  are  Turkish  women  who  are  casting  it  aside, 
since  the  granting  of  the  Constitution,  but  I  feel  as 


84       "WKo  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

most  intelligent  Moslem  women  do,  that  the  time  is 
not  yet  ripe  for  such  radical  changes.  Ruyden,  ruy- 
dcn  (slowly,  slowly),  is  how  I  feel  about  it."  Her 
English  was  not  as  perfect  as  I  have  made  it  appear, 
but  with  Kate's  help  when  she  did  not  know  a  word, 
I  got  at  what  she  was  trying  to  express. 

"Is  it  true  that  polygamy  is  dying  out?"  Betty 
asked. 

"Thank  God,  yes,  although  in  our  family  it  has 
never  been  practised  within  my  memory.  And  we 
have  love  matches  quite  as  frequently  as  our  Chris 
tian  neighbours.  Listen  while  I  tell  you  a  tale.  There 
were  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  who  grew  up  to 
gether,  though  distantly  connected,  and  who  de 
clared  when  quite  young  they  would  never  be  given 
in  marriage  excepting  to  each  other.  When  old 
enough  they  were  formally  betrothed,  which  with 
us  is  as  binding  as  the  Christian  marriage  ceremony. 

One  day,  one  of  the  older  women  was  laughing 
at  the  girl  about  the  devotion  of  Shikry  to  her.  "I 
believe  if  you  told  him  to  throw  himself  into  the 
sea  for  thee  he  would  do  it." 

"I  wonder  if  he  would,"  was  her  reply.  "I'll 
see,"  she  cried,  and  running  to  him  said,  "Shikry, 
dost  love  me  enough  to  throw  thyself  into  the  sea  ?" 

"Ma'aloom"  (certainly),  he  replied. 

"Then  do  it,"  she  commanded. 

"I  am  under  thy  orders,"  was  the  instant  rejoin 
der,  and  off  he  started  on  the  run  for  a  high  cliff. 
Such  a  to-do  as  there  was.  Shikry's  mother  shrieked 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       85 

and  tore  her  hair,  screaming  that  she  had  killed  her 
son,  and  the  little  bride  herself,  frightened  at  what 
she  had  done,  ran  after  him,  and  held  him  back  as 
he  was  about  to  spring  from  the  brink. 

"Did  you  know  these  people?"  I  asked,  much  in 
terested  in  the  pretty  story. 

"Ma'aloom.  They  were  my  father  and  mother," 
she  laughed,  and  added,  "I  often  say  that  though 
Moslems,  our  marriage  is  Christian." 

As  we  rose  to  go  I  asked,  "Won't  you  tell  me 
where  the  harem  of  your  house  is?" 

You  should  have  heard  her  laugh.  "You  are  in 
it  now.  Wherever  we  Moslem  women  are,  there  is 
the  harem."  And  that  explains  the  absence  of  locks 
and  eunuchs  on  guard. 

The  End  of  a  Busy  Day. 

The  silk  season  is  on  and  the  Worm  is  King. 
From  one  end  of  this  land  to  the  other,  all  is  bustle, 
hard  work,  aching  backs  and  toil-stained  women's 
hands.  Did  you  know  that  the  silkworms  do  not 
just  happen  along  from  somewhere  at  the  proper 
time  in  the  spring,  when  the  mulberry  puts  forth 
her  leaves,  fresh  and  green?  And  also  that  they  do 
not  sit  around  on  the  trees  and  eat  their  fill  and  at 
the  right  time  hang  up  their  cocoons  on  the  branches 
they  have  eaten  bare?  I'll  confess  I  had  never  given 
a  thought  to  the  how  of  silk  production,  and  I  find 
the  price  we  pay  for  the  most  beautiful  of  all  fab 
rics  is  not  commensurate  with  the  labour  necessary 


86       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

before  it  can  be  sent  to  the  loom,  not  to  mention 
the  luring  display  in  the  shops  of  the  world. 

First  there  are  the  bizr  "seeds,"  the  people  call 
them, — the  eggs  which  come  from  Sardinia,  if  you 
want  to  get  the  best,  and  are  sold  by  weight  in 
round,  perforated  boxes.  When  the  mulberry  leaves 
are  large  enough  in  March,  these  boxes  are  taken 
to  a  place  which  is  kept  at  the  proper  temperature 
until  the  eggs  are  hatched,  after  which  the  millions 
of  tiny,  sluggish  worms  are  placed  on  large  wicker 
trays,  or  crude  clay  ones  manufactured  at  home,  and 
arranged  on  shelves  put  up  in  the  houses  or  tempo 
rary  shelters  among  the  trees. 

Then  the  incessant  work  begins.  The  leaves  are 
picked  by  the  women  and  fed  to  the  worms,  and  so 
fastidious  are  their  majesties  when  young,  they  will 
not  eat  unless  the  leaves  are  carefully  arranged  and 
of  a  certain  growth, — not  too  young. 

But  gradually  as  the  sightless  things — did  you 
know  they  are  without  eyes? — get  larger,  they  are 
content  to  eat  them  any  old  way  and  in  almost  limit 
less  quantities.  Four  times  during  their  short  lives 
they  fast  for  a  space  of  twenty-four  hours,  with 
heads  upreared  and  motionless,  and  then  the  poor 
women  have  time  to  wash  their  clothes  and  tidy  up 
the  house.  But  towards  the  last,  just  before  the 
worms  are  ready  to  spin  their  cocoons,  the  work  is 
incessant  day  and  night  to  keep  a  fresh  supply  of 
leaves  on  the  trays.  The  men  have  to  turn  to  and 
help  now,  for  every  limb  must  be  cut  from  the  trees 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       87 

and  every  leaf  stripped  off,  and  all  decayed  spots  on 
the  stubby  stumps  chopped  out.  Then  the  bark  must 
be  peeled  from  the  limbs,  which  are  really  only 
shoots  with  which  the  tree  rehabilitates  itself  im 
mediately  to  produce  a  new  crop  of  leaves.  Every 
year  amputation,  every  season  two  crops  of  leaves, 
one  for  the  worms,  one  for  the  cattle  in  a  land 
where  summers  are  dry  and  hay  is  unknown.  The 
tender  bark  to  be  fed  to  the  cattle,  too,  is  carefully 
saved,  as  are  the  long,  slender  shoots  as  fuel  for  the 
pot  or  mjh  on  which  the  delicious  paper-thin  bread 
is  baked. 

It  is  a  novel  sight,  the  myriads  of  cocoons,  some 
pure  white,  some  yellow,  fastened  to  bits  of  dried 
herbage  which  had  been  set  conveniently  near  for 
the  outreachings  of  the  worm,  seeking  something  to 
fasten  to  as  it  enshrouds  itself  in  its  silken  tomb. 

It  is  a  gala  time  when  the  cocoons  are  picked,  the 
neighbours  helping  each  other,  and  the  simsar, 
"buyer,"  comes  along.  How  excited  the  people  get 
over  the  price,  which  is  made  as  low  as  possible,  of 
course,  by  the  clever  buyer.  Then  for  weeks  fol 
lowing  there  is  a  steady  flow  of  cocoons  in  great 
sacks  to  factories.  The  tinkle  of  the  mule-bells  on 
the  carriage  roads  and  bridlepaths  fills  the  air,  for 
the  moths  will  eat  their  way  out  to  the  destruction 
of  the  silken  threads  if  they  are  not  steamed  very 
soon  in  a  tnukhnukh  (that  word  is  interesting,  mean 
ing  a  choking  place),  then  follows  the  drying  in  the 
open  air,  a  long  process. 


88       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

C.  D.  is  away  most  of  the  time  now,  going  from 
factory  to  factory.  He  is  a  hard  worker,  David  is. 
No  sooner  is  the  cocoon  season  over,  than  the  fac 
tories  start  up  and  we  ship  many  precious  bales  of 
raw  silk  each  week  to  France.  In  the  autumn  the 
olives  claim  our  attention,  and  that  means  shipments 
of  oil  and  olives  in  addition,  and  soap  all  the  year. 
The  orange  market  begins  in  the  late  autumn,  and 
then  we  do  have  to  work.  We  load  a  steamer  each 
week  with  oranges  alone. 

This  was  steamer  day  and  I  am  tired.  I  would 
have  been  more  so  had  not  Mr.  Whitelaw,  who 
seems  to  be  much  in  evidence  these  days,  come  in 
and  begged  for  a  ride  about  sunset,  after  office 
hours.  I  have  decided  to  buy  the  horse  I  wrote 
you  about  in  my  last  letter.  Such  a  beauty;  pure 
white,  wavy,  flowing  tail  and  as  fleet  as  the  wind,  but 
as  gentle  as  yourself,  mother  dear.  I'll  tell  you  what 
happened  to-day,  if  you  won't  scold.  We  were 
cantering  along  down  on  the  sands,  when  in  a  spirit 
of  fun,  I  suddenly  turned  about,  but  did  not  calcu 
late  my  distance  well,  for  I  kept  right  on,  straight 
on,  through  the  air  over  Nejmy's  head.  And  then 
what  do  you  suppose  happened?  The  horse  was 
upon  me,  but  being  an  Arabian,  she  will  not  step 
on  human  flesh  if  it  can  be  avoided.  So  she  reared 
on  her  hind  feet  and  side-stepped  around  me,  and 
never  grazed  even  my  habit. 

Of  course,  Mr.  Whitelaw  was  beside  me  immedi 
ately,  and  when  he  found  I  was  not  hurt  he  got 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       89 

cross,  and  really  almost  scolded  me  for  being  reck 
less. 

"Miss  Locke,  why  did  you  do  that?"  and  his  tone 
was  clearly  annoyed. 

"Do  what  ?"  I  meekly  enquired,  as  I  arranged  my 
disordered  hair. 

"Try  to  do  the  impossible,  turn  your  horse  when 
cantering  as  fast  as  we  were.  You  might  have  been 
killed.  I  wonder  if  you  are  not  hurt  somewhere?" 
His  tone  was  more  anxious  than  vexed  now,  as  he 
assisted  me  to  mount  again.  "Are  you  sure  you 
are  quite  all  right?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  am  not  hurt  a  bit,"  I  declared. 
And  then  I  did  have  the  grace  to  say,  "I  am  sorry 
if  you  are  annoyed,  but  truly  I  am  not  hurt,  and  I 
am  quite  used  to  horses,  for  I  always  rode  in  Central 
Park  at  home." 

"Do  you  think  Central  Park  riding  is  like  the 
wild,  free  swing  of  these  Arabians,  which  go  like 
the  wind?"  and  his  tone  was  not  exactly  concilia 
tory. 

I  expect  I  will  be  lame  for  a  day  or  two,  but 
never  mind,  I  won't  try  the  experiment  again,  for  I 
did  feel  rather  uncertain  as  to  the  outcome  of  the 
rapidly  approaching  thud  when  I  found  myself  fly 
ing  through  space.  And  I  promised  Mr.  Whitelaw 
to  resist  all  such  impulses  in  the  future,  he  seemed 
so  troubled  about  it.  And  he  promised  he  would 
not  tell  on  me  to  C.  D. 


90       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

Another  Day.  No  Entry  of  Events.   Only  a  Ques 
tion. 

If  I  have  found  it  hard  to  have  sympathy  with 
the  missionaries  who  are  here  just  to  live,  to  love 
and  show  what  He  did  with  His  life,  how  is  it  I 
am  here,  doing  my  serious  work  over  books  and  in 
voices  and  letters  that  this  cousin  of  mine  may  make 
money?  Conceded.  Money,  too,  may  be  made  in 
America. 

Off  on  a  Tour. 

Miss  Delight  is  not  only  the  head  and  brains  of 
the  girls'  school,  but  she  sends  out  her  lines  of  help 
into  many  of  the  towns  and  villages  which  she  visits 
during  her  vacation.  One  would  think  she  would 
be  tired  enough  after  continuous  work  in  a  large 
boarding  school  during  a  long  school  year,  to  want 
to  rest  and  relax  when  summer  comes.  But  she 
only  takes  a  short  time  to  get  her  clothes  in  order, 
and  then  she  is  up  and  away  for  a  month  or  six 
weeks'  tour.  And,  as  if  that  were  not  sufficient,  if 
any  slightest  need  arises  she  spends  the  fortnight  of 
the  Easter  recess  with  "her  people."  This  spring 
some  one  "up  Hamath  way"  was  in  sorrow  and  she 
felt  constrained  to  go  to  this  sad  heart,  and  because 
the  new  crop  of  cocoons  is  not  yet  in,  she  took  me 
with  her  by  special,  gracious  permission.  So  I  am 
off  on  a  missionary  tour ! 

We  left  Trablus  early  one  morning  by  the  train 
which  crawls  around  the  base  of  old  Turbul,  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       91 

guardian  of  Belad  Akkar,  which  territory  still  re 
tains  its  traditions  of  the  Crusaders  and  of  Peter 
the  Hermit,  enduring  the  test  of  passing  through 
fire,  near  the  village  of  Minyara.  Somehow  I  had 
expected  that  the  farther  east  we  went  just  so  much 
more  would  life  grow  primitive.  But  instead,  I 
found  it  more  abundant,  and  was  amazed  when  we 
arrived  at  Horns  to  find,  not  a  village,  but  a  city, 
compactly  built  and  with  some  80,000  inhabitants, 
situated  on  the  Orontes  River,  full  of  life  and  bustle, 
with  through  trains  on  the  main  line  from  Beyrout 
and  Damascus  to  Aleppo,  carrying  the  Western 
throb  and  impulse  to  the  interior. 

There  was  once  an  imposing  castle  dominating  the 
town  from  an  artificial  mound,  and  I  wandered  amid 
its  ruins  and  looked  off  into  the  haze  over  the  desert, 
which  stops  not  far  from  the  Horns  front  doors, 
and  pictured  heroic  Zenobia  marshalling  her  forces, 
only  to  be  humbled  by  the  Romans  and  chained  in 
golden  fetters,  forced  to  grace  the  triumphal  return 
of  Aurelian  to  Rome.  As  we  stood  there,  fronting 
the  widest  horizon  I  think  I  ever  saw,  I  spied  what 
looked  like  white  beehives,  a  great  cluster  of  them, 
away  to  the  north,  and  was  told  it  was  a  village 
whose  houses  were  built  in  a  curious  circular 
fashion.  When  we  passed  through  it  a  few  days 
later,  it  seemed  as  though  the  architecture  of  the 
North  American  Indians  had  been  borrowed  and 
their  wigwams  reproduced  in  sun-dried,  white 
washed  bricks. 


92       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

I  know  now,  mother,  what  "the  many  mansions" 
mean,  for  I  have  seen  some.  Imagine  a  high  sur 
rounding  wall  with  but  one  street  door,  opening  into 
a  paved  court  in  which  there  are  fruit  trees — apri 
cot,  orange  and  pomegranate  in  full  bloom,  with 
double  white  jessamine,  heavy  scented,  clambering 
up  the  side  of  the  house.  On  the  right  hand  as  we 
entered  was  the  "father's  house,"  a  large  room  with 
divans  on  two  sides,  on  which  there  were  covers 
and  cushions  of  rich  silk,  while  the  floor  was  over 
laid  with  thick,  beautiful  rugs.  Here  we  sat  a  while 
and  partook  of  sherbat  and  sweets,  and  then  were 
permitted  to  see  the  sons'  "mansions,"  similar  rooms 
ranged  around  the  great  central  court,  the  eldest 
son's  being  directly  opposite  the  father's.  And  to 
make  it  seem  as  though  we  were  living  for  a  while 
right  in  the  Bible,  this  father  was  "preparing  a 
place"  for  the  youngest  son,  who  was  expected  in 
the  near  future  to  bring  home  his  bride.  Yes,  these 
were  the  "many  mansions,"  within  the  Father's 
house,  and  how  homey  it  makes  heaven  seem,  now 
that  I  have  seen  this. 

In  direct  contrast  to  this  beautiful  picture,  was 
hearing  about  the  celebration  of  the  feast  of  Bairam 
by  the  Moslems,  a  feast  in  commemoration  of  the 
offering  up  of  Ishmael,  not  Isaac.  They  have  what  is 
called  the  da'asy,  "the  stepping,"  when  men  literally 
pave  the  street  with  their  bodies,  face  downward, 
while  the  sheikh  rides  over  them  on  his  Arabian 
steed.  I  was  invited  to  witness  it,  but  declined! 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       93 

They  claim  no  one  is  ever  injured,  but  what  a 
dreadful  manifestation  of  religious  fervour! 

The  missionaries  have  been  very  successful  in 
Horns.  There  are  two  churches,  a  number  of  day 
schools  and  a  large  boys'  boarding  school,  all  sup 
ported  by  the  church  members.  By  that  I  mean,  if 
they  do  not  themselves  give  all  the  money  necessary, 
they  see  that  it  is  raised.  They  were  early  taught 
that  God's  tenth  must  be  religiously  kept  for  His 
work,  hence  for  all  ordinary  drafts  upon  the  treas 
ury,  they  have  an  abundance.  On  Sunday  the  men 
go  out  two  and  two  to  neighbouring  villages,  preach 
ing  and  teaching  the  Gospel  and  are  achieving 
marvellous  results. 

We  stayed  in  Horns  several  days  and  then  took  a 
carriage  for  Hamath,  as  we  wished  to  stop  at  some 
villages  en  route.  Resten,  the  beehive  town  was  one. 
It  is  situated  near  the  Orontes,  and  we  ate  our  lunch 
near  where  it  be'ids  in  among  the  trees.  Some 
women,  clad  in  their  flowing  blue  garments  with 
long  black  veils,  left  their  work — woman's  work 
— that  of  moulding  manure  into  flat  cakes  which  the 
sun  bakes,  for  their  fuel — they  have  no  other — to 
gaze  at  the  foreign  women.  I  was  wearing  black, 
of  course,  for  dear  father,  and  they  looked  me  over 
in  silent,  unbounded  curiosity.  Finally  one  ven 
tured  the  remark,  "Hast  thou  any  hair?"  I  as 
sured  her  I  had  an  abundance,  and  removed  my  hat 
to  make  good  my  words. 

They  all  giggled  like  school  girls  at  the  sight  of 


94       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

my  locks  pinned  to  my  crown.  Then  presently  an 
other  found  her  voice  and  pointing  to  my  com 
panion,  timidly  remarked,  "That  sitt  is  all  ashes 
colour,  hat,  dress,  even  her  hands,  and  thou  art  all 
black.  Why?"  Miss  Delight  explained  that  she 
was  dressed  that  way  because  she  liked  the  colour, 
and  that  I  was  in  mourning.  The  word  she  used 
for  mourning  was  not  familiar  and  they  did  not 
understand.  So  she  said  that  a  friend  of  mine  had 
died.  They  looked  at  me  with  the  quick  sympathy 
one  meets  with  everywhere  out  here,  and  one  re 
marked,  "Oh,  my  little  sister,  thou  art  sorrowful. 
Did  all  thy  friends  die  that  thou  wearest  only 
asived?"  Was  not  that  a  rebuke?  Do  you  know 
what  she  would  have  done,  had  her  very  dearest 
died?  She  would  have  bound  her  head  in  a  pure 
white  veil,  while  we  Christians  who  have  a  lively 
hope  in  the  blessed  resurrection  and  reunion,  swathe 
ourselves  in  black  of  deepest  dye. 

The  Old  City  of  Hamath. 

Such  queer  experiences  as  I  am  having.  I  am 
sure  I'll  be  black  and  blue  pinching  myself  to  see  if 
it  is  really  I,  myself,  going  about  in  this  old  city, 
so  old  that  it  long  ago  forgot  to  count  the  centuries 
of  its  existence. 

How  would  you  have  enjoyed  seeing  me  envel 
oped  in  the  ezar,  the  covering  garment  all  women 
wear  in  the  street,  my  face  hidden  behind  a  hideous 
bright-coloured  veil,  even  my  hands  covered  by  a 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       95 

fold  of  the  ezar.  I  revelled  in  it,  because  I  wended 
my  way  in  and  out  of  the  bazaars  along  with  Miss 
Delight,  and  not  a  soul  knew  I  was  not  a  "daughter 
of  the  Arabs."  Of  course  we  left  off  our  hats,  for 
there  is  a  sort  of  cape  part  which  is  drawn  up  over 
the  head.  When  we  got  back  this  afternoon  from 
paying  that  call  of  condolence  we  had  come  so  far 
to  make,  poor  Miss  Delight's  hat  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  It  had  been  stolen.  Some  inquisitive 
boys  had  climbed  the  wall  and  got  into  her  room 
over  the  iron  bars  in  the  window,  and  were  so  taken 
with  its  beauty  (she  got  it  in  America  some  four 
years  ago),  that  they  decamped  with  it.  She  re 
covered  it  later,  none  the  worse  for  having  been 
exhibited  all  about  the  neighbourhood  as  the  head 
covering  of  the  foreign  woman. 

This  city — it  is  as  large  as  Horns — is  "watered" 
from  the  Orontes  by  means  of  huge  water  wheels 
with  primitive  bucket  attachments,  which  lift  the 
water  to  conduits,  whence  it  is  distributed  in  all 
directions.  But  the  process  of  elevation  is  ap 
parently  not  only  painful  to  the  wheels,  but  appall 
ingly  so  to  the  ears  of  him  who  must  perforce 
listen  to  their  protests  by  day  and  night.  It  beggars 
description,  the  perpetual  groaning,  scolding, 
screaming,  slow-moving  wheels,  as  though  protesting 
that  it  is  time  their  age-long  services  were  discon 
tinued  and  modern  methods  adopted.  They  domi 
nate  the  town  as  the  tall  buildings  do  in  New  York. 
They  scream  at  you  to  look  at  them,  something  to  be 


96       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

seen  nowhere  else  on  earth.  One  wonders  who  in 
vented  them,  and  why  some  one  has  not  had  the 
inspiration  to  grease  them. 

I  would  have  been  glad  to  stay  here  longer,  but 
Miss  Delight's  time  is  limited,  and  to-morrow  we 
go  on  to  our  last  place  before  turning  our  faces 
homeward,  but  I  managed  to  see  some  Hittite  writ 
ing  on  a  wall  and  several  rock-cut  tombs.  Perhaps 
Mr.  Whitelaw  will  yet  find  that  bilingual  inscription 
he  is  seeking  and  then  all  the  queer  Hittite  seals  and 
letters  will  be  deciphered — perhaps.  Did  I  tell 
you  that  this  same  gentleman  came  as  far  as  Horns 
with  us  ?  He  was  returning  to  his  excavations,  and 
went  right  on  the  next  day. 

My  Next  Day. 

I  was  as  proud  as  Punch  of  our  picturesque 
cavalcade  when  we  started  for  Mahardee  this  morn 
ing,  where  is  a  wonderful  group  of  Christians  and 
a  more  wonderful  preacher, — a  man  who  obtained 
his  first  Bible  by  exchanging  his  sword  for  it.  The 
Hamath  pastor,  Qussees  Yaqub,  regal  in  kefeyeh 
and  abeyeh,  "head  shawl  and  dust  robe,"  rode  his 
superb  black  mare,  which  has  a  pedigree  half  a 
yard  long,  literally.  Miss  Delight  and  I  were  on 
beautiful  Bagdad  donkeys,  and  the  cook,  who  always 
goes  along  on  tours,  brought  up  the  rear  with  the 
commissariat. 

As  we  rode  along,  away  off  to  the  left  was  the 
great  Hamath  plain  covered  with  tall  grain,  which 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       97 

as  yet  shows  no  suspicion  of  the  coming  harvest, — 
a  sea  of  gently  undulating  green  billows,  the  farther 
shore  of  which  was  the  range  of  Nuseireh  Moun 
tains.  Indeed,  the  people  here,  many  of  whom  have 
never  been  from  home,  call  this  plain  with  its  un 
broken  expanse  of  wheat  fields,  el  Bahr,  likening  it 
in  their  imagination  to  the  sea,  they  have  heard  of 
but  never  seen. 

Mahardee,  our  objective,  a  large  village,  is  unique. 
It  is  surrounded  by  dunghills,  which  have  assumed 
proportions,  as  stable  products  are  carefully  hoarded 
for  fuel.  You  never  get  away  from  the  odour,  nor 
the  fleas  and  mosquitoes  which  breed  therein.  Be 
fore  reaching  the  village,  we  passed  the  holdings  of 
the  people,  community  land,  which  is  divided  each 
year  or  two.  "The  lines  have  fallen  to  me  in  pleas 
ant  places,"  means  that  the  "measuring  line"  was 
kind  to  the  Psalmist  in  the  dividing  by  lot  of  the 
common  land  among  the  villagers.  And  from  the 
blackness  of  the  soil  we  saw  the  men  working,  I 
should  think  everybody  in  Mahardee  had  a  "goodly 
heritage." 

A  second  unique  thing  is  that  the  horses  are  kept 
underground,  in  real,  truly  cellars.  The  town  is  on 
the  edge  of  the  desert,  and  marauding  bands  of  rov 
ing  Arabs  have  a  liking  for  horse-flesh.  So  the  clever 
people  dig  under  their  dooryards  and  hide  their 
stables,  and  so  sleep  peacefully  o'  nights.  It  was 
something  to  see  the  horses  which  had  been  worked 
all  day  in  the  fields,  soberly  trot  down  the  stairs 


98       "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

to  their  supper  of  barley  (no  oats  are  raised  out 
here),  and  after  a  while  come  racing  up  again  for 
a  drink  of  water  before  being  locked  in  for  the 
night.  And  the  water — always  a  question  of  great 
moment  in  this  dry  and  thirsty  land,  is  brought 
from  the  beneficent  Orontes  River  a  good  half- 
hour's  walk,  in  great  copper  jars  on  the  heads  of 
the  women,  which  accounts  for  their  erect  carriage 
and  stately  steppings. 

We  ate  our  supper  seated  on  the  floor  on  which 
our  hostess  had  spread  a  beautiful  blue  and  white 
sheet  of  silk  and  cotton,  Hamath  weave,  and  never 
did  fried  eggs  taste  so  good.  Perhaps  it  was  owing 
to  the  flat  bread  baked  in  an  oven  heated  with 
manure  fuel!  On  it  Sitt  Sara  poured  thick  cream. 
We  topped  off  with  olives  and  a  cup  of  Arab  coffee. 
Supper  over,  the  church  members  gathered  for  the 
service  Qussees  Yciqub  had  come  to  conduct.  And 
they  kept  coming,  men  and  women,  some  bringing 
children  to  be  baptised,  until  there  were  more  than 
two  hundred  reverent,  devout  worshippers  seated 
close  together  on  the  floor.  There  was  a  little  table, 
not  overly  strong  nor  well  made,  which  served  as 
pulpit  and  reading  desk  and  altar,  with  room  for 
a  lamp,  which  was  neither  large  nor  very  bright. 
But  the  Bible  was  there  and  apostolic  fervour,  such 
as  we  look  with  disfavour  upon  in  our  old  Western 
land.  There  was  soberness,  earnestness  and  more 
real  religiousness,  the  this-one-thing-I-do-kind,  than 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"       99 

I  have  ever  seen  before.  What  matter  if  they  did 
start  the  second  verse  of  a  hymn  to  a  different 
tune  than  the  one  they  started  out  with,  and  had 
to  be  reminded  by  the  Qussees  that  the  first  was  the 
right  one  ere  they  essayed  the  third  verse.  Their 
hearts  made  melody,  I  know,  and  more  acceptable 
to  God  than  that  of  our  choirs  of  paid  singers.  How 
their  faces  shone  as  they  sang. 

But  when  the  Sacrament  of  the  Holy  Communion 
was  celebrated  I  felt  I  had  never  before  known  what 
it  meant.  The  flat  bread,  "this  is  my  body  broken 
for  you,"  joyfully  received  with  hands  which  shook 
with  emotion,  and  the  poured  out  wine  from  hand  to 
hand  passing  in  memory  of  Him  they  devotedly 
loved. 

This  journey  has  been  very  much  worth  while 
for  me.  I  have  learned  what  religion  should  be — 
a  matter  of  heart-consciousness,  the  pace  setter  for 
the  daily  walk  and  conduct  because  of  knowing  the 
indwelling  Christ.  Mother,  I  have  learned  to  sing, 
"Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul" ;  I  never  knew  how  before. 
Those  people  here  to-night  taught  me  when  they 
lost  the  tune  and  found  it  again. 

Very  few  of  the  elder  women  can  read  and  not 
all  of  the  men.  But  there  is  a  dignity  and  a  zest 
of  living  which  at  first  puzzled  me,  until  I  discovered 
that,  according  to  their  ideas,  a  person's  "life  consist- 
eth  not  in  the  things  he  possesseth,"  but  in  how  he 
measures  up  to  a  certain  standard  set  by  a  Man 


100     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

brought  up  in  this  very  land,  down  in  Galilee,  in 
a  city  called  Nazareth.  I  am  feeling  my  way,  oh 
mother  of  me,  with  very  stumbling  steps,  to  higher 
ground.  Mayhap  some  day  I'll  too  measure  up. 


Load  not  upon  to-day  the  burdens 
of  the  years,  for  each  day  shall  bring 
thee  its  portion. — Arab  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

The  Second  Summer.    The  Month  of  July. 

The  four  volumes  which  have  gone  to  you  had 
more  or  less  of  Mr.  Whitelaw  in  them,  and  here  I 
am  beginning  the  fifth  one  with  his  name.  It  is 
something  I  cannot  help,  as  he  and  C.  D.  have 
struck  up  a  real  David  and  Jonathan  brotherhood, 
and  it  is  the  regular  thing  now  when  Jonathan 
comes  to  town  to  stop  with  us.  Some  supplies  for 
his  diggings  are  expected,  and  as  the  steamers  are 
sometimes  irregular  he  came  on  several  days  be 
fore  the  time,  to  watch,  I  suppose,  for  the  smoke 
of  the  ship  bringing  them  over  the  Enfeh  Point, 
a  consignment  of  tinned  things  to  eat,  along  with 
picks  and  shovels  and  wheelbarrows.  And  while 
waiting,  time  seems  to  hang  heavily  on  his  hands, 
for  after  a  period  of  longer  or  shorter  duration,  he 
is  apt  to  turn  up  at  the  office  and  wait  for  closing 
time. 

Yesterday,  above  the  clatter  of  the  typewriter,  I 
heard  him  in  C.  D.'s  room,  talking,  I  supposed,  of 
pre-historics,  and  when  I  went  in  with  some  letters 
to  be  signed,  C.  D.  was  saying,  "I  can't  get  away, 
Whitelaw.  Nussar  is  coming  about  new  machinery 
in  the  Tell  factory.  I'm  sorry.  Here  is  Rachel,  she 
will  go  with  you." 

103 


104.     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

"Yes  indeed,  I'll  go  anywhere  with  anybody  this 
wonderful  day,"  I  laughed. 

"You  don't  know  what  all  this  means,"  Mr. 
Whitelaw  said,  smiling.  "I  want  to  go  to  Jebail  and 
see  the  site  of  that  pre-historic  village  I  have  heard 
about.  Hackett  says  he  cannot  go,  but  will  send  you 
as  his  substitute,"  and  he  looked  questioningly  into 
my  eyes  as  though  not  quite  sure  of  my  answer. 

"And  I  am  a  joyful,  willing  substitute,"  I  ex 
claimed,  to  his  evident  pleasure.  "And  besides,  Kate 
lives  there.  When  do  we  start?" 

"You  had  better  go  at  once  if  you  are  to  get  back 
to-night,"  C.  D.  said.  Now,  mother,  don't  shake 
your  dear  head  and  think  I  am  always  shirking. 
But  the  prospect  of  a  run  in  the  car  together  with 
a  glimpse  of  Kate  was  too  alluring,  and  besides,  was 
I  not  sent  of  C.  D.  ?  I  rushed  out,  caught  that 
beastly  tram  which  is  usually  so  exasperatingly  slow, 
and  burst  in  on  Betty,  who,  while  I  dressed  for  the 
ride,  put  up  some  lunch,  and  away  we  went,  Mr. 
Whitelaw  acting  as  chauffeur.  Oh,  the  joy  of  it, 
going  in  and  out  among  the  gnarled,  twisted  olives 
in  the  Kura,  with  the  background  of  the  towering 
mountains,  majestic,  grim  and  silent,  as  though 
saying,  "In  quietness  and  confidence  shall  be  your 
strength." 

"Don't  you  feel  so?"  I  suddenly  asked. 

"I  suppose  I  do  if  you  do,"  my  companion  replied, 
and  I  surprised  that  reluctant  smile  in  his  eyes  as 
he  glanced  at  me.  "But  what  about?" 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     105 

I  was  a  bit  confused,  for  he  had  caught  me  at 
that  trick  I  have  of  thinking  out  loud.  "I  was  think 
ing  of  the  strength  of  those  everlasting  mountains, 
and  how  they  speak  peace  to  us  mortals  in  our  rest 
lessness." 

"  'Round  our  restlessness  His  rest  ?'  Yes,  the 
mountains  do  that  I  think,  as  does  the  flow  of  a 
river  and  the  wideness  of  the  sea." 

We  rounded  the  corner  and  sped  up  the  splendid 
road  along  the  Mesailaha  headland.  After  we  had 
dashed  through  the  first  tunnel,  the  car  slowed  down 
and  stopped  beside  an  opening  in  the  parapet  which 
keeps  us  from  dropping  off  the  edge  into  the  water 
below. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  inquired  as  Mr.  White- 
law  jumped  out  and  disappeared  through  the  open 
ing. 

"In  a  moment,"  he  called  back,  and  realizing  he 
was  a  grown  man,  and  not  a  child  like  Caryl,  I  set 
tled  back  in  my  seat  and  waited,  feasting  my  eyes 
on  the  ravishing  view  of  old  Turbul  to  the  north 
and  the  limitless  sea  to  the  west.  I  suddenly  realized 
oh,  mother,  that  I  loved  those  mountains  and  rocks 
and  the  'great  and  wide  sea/  mysterious  because  of 
its  wideness  and  lovable  because  of  its  moods.  The 
wonder  is  that  I  do  not  become  more  interested  in 
the  human  product,  whose  rugged  lives  are  moulded 
and  shaped  by  all  this  bigness  and  wideness. 

Betty  has  grown  very  fond  of  them,  and  I  dis 
covered  the  other  day  that  the  'engagement'  she  has 


106     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

every  Friday  afternoon,  is  to  teach  singing  in  Miss 
Delight's  school.  I  asked  her  why  she  did  that,  and 
she  said,  "Rachel,  I  seemed  so  useless  beside  those 
splendid  women  missionaries,  and  one  day  I  went 
to  the  school  to  ask  Miss  Delight  something  and 
found  her  trying  to  teach  the  girls  singing,  when  she 
had  had  no  training  in  music,  and  I  with  my  musical 
education  thrown  away,  so  to  speak,  I  begged  her  to 
let  me  tell  the  girls  how  to  sing  that  particular  song. 
When  I  found  how  much  it  relieved  her,  I  kept  right 
on." 

I  remembered  all  this  as  I  sat  in  the  car  awaiting 
the  reappearance  of  Mr.  Whitelaw.  He  came  back 
in  due  time,  flushed  and  panting. 

"It  is  as  I  thought.  There  is  a  path  which  leads 
down  to  a  spring  of  cold  water.  Do  you  feel  in 
clined  to  essay  the  feat  of  scrambling  down  there 
*nd  have  lunch?  The  climb  up  is  stiff,  and  not 
easy." 

"By  all  means,  if "  and  I  hesitated,  ashamed 

to  confess  it,  "if  there  are  no  snakes.    Are  there?" 

"I  did  not  see  any,"  he  replied,  and  did  not  even 
smile  at  my  childish  inquiry.  "I  am  deadly  afraid 
of  snakes,  and  I  am  told  there  are  very  poisonous 
ones  in  this  land.  Thank  you  for  not  laughing  at 
me,"  I  added. 

"I  am  ready,"  displaying  a  stout  stick  he  carried, 
md  led  the  way  down  a  narrow,  uncertain  path, 
steadying  me  over  the  steep  places  of  which  there 
were  so  many,  that  he  held  my  hand  most  of  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     107 

way.  And  I  liked  it !  He  has  nice,  cool,  dry  hands, 
not  the  clammy  and  sticky  kind  to  which  one 
adheres. 

In  a  cleft  of  the  towering  rock  was  a  bit  of  fairy 
land.  The  water  did  not  bubble  up  from  below,  but 
trickled  down  from  above,  and  nourished  into  being 
myriads  of  feathery  ferns  which  clung  to  the  sides 
of  the  chasm,  beaded  and  glistening  with  the  mois 
ture  constantly  and  lavishly  showered  upon  them. 

We  turned  our  backs  to  the  sea,  and  revelled  in 
the  greenness  and  coolness,  and  ate  Betty's  sand 
wiches  and  olives  with  hot  tea  from  the  thermos 
bottles  in  great  content.  Mr.  Whitelaw  was  in  a 
silent  mood,  and  I  have  learned  this  much  about  a 
man  through  working  with  C.  D.,  to  respect  the 
mood,  unless  I  wish  to  bring  something  not  exactly 
— er — welcome  in  the  way  of  a  polite  rebuff  or  a 
downright  snub.  When  there  was  not  even  a  crumb 
left  for  the  ants  to  carry  off,  I  arose,  "And  what  is 
the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,  to  quote  a  wise 
man  who  once  lived  in  this  land?"  I  laughingly 
asked,  while  I  stowed  away  plates  and  things  in  the 
basket. 

My  companion  had  been  fingering  a  frail  maiden 
hair  fern,  quite  to  its  death,  I  observed,  when  he 
turned  with  that  smile  hidden  in  back  of  his  eyes, 
and  coming  towards  me  said,  "That — that  I  love 
you,"  with  the  same  ease  he  might  have  said,  'Good 
morning.' 

"Good  gracious,"  I  ejaculated,  nearly  dropping  a 


108     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

thermos  bottle.  "What  makes  you  do  that?"  step 
ping  back  out  of  reach  of  a  stretched-out  hand.  "I 
wouldn't  if  I  were  you." 

"Yes?    And  why  not?" 

"Why — because — why  I  don't  know,"  I  answered 
slowly,  "unless  because  I  don't  have  a  particle  of 
that  emotion  for  you." 

"Really  ?"  and  I  was  surprised  to  see  his  lips  trem 
ble  a  little.  "I  have  been  so  busy  loving  you  since 
that  episode  with  the  match,  that  you  have  seemed 
— to  belong  to  me.  Why  couldn't  you  care  for  me, 
my — Miss  Locke?" 

"I  do  that,"  I  frankly  averred.  "But  I  don't— 
it  never  occurred  to  me  to — do  that  other." 

"Now  that  it  has  been  suggested  to  you,"  and 
that  smile  crept  into  his  eyes  again,  "does  it  seem 
so  impossible?"  Then  after  a  silence,  "Rachel — 
you  will  let  me  call  you  that  here  alone  with  only  the 
sea  and  the  rocks  to  hear  ?  Will  you  set  yourself  the 
task  of  learning  the  primer  of  love?  I'll  be  your 
teacher,  if  you'll  let  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"Mr.  Whitelaw,"  I  began,  but  the  words  would 
not  come.  Something  seemed  to  stir  in  my  heart, 
a  new  emotion  and  unfamiliar,  but  I  stood  silent, 
afraid  somehow  to  look  at  him.  The  sails  of  the 
fishing  boats  stood  taut  against  the  wind.  I  counted 
them  reflected  in  the  blue  water, — one,  two,  three, 
four, — one,  two,  three,  four, — tongue-tied,  while  he 
waited  for  permission  to  teach  me  to — to  love  him. 

"Mr.  Whitelaw "  at  last  finding  my  voice  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     109 

summoning  my  fugitive  eyes  from  those  glittering 
patches  of  cloth  at  sea,  "please  do  not  think  I  am 
indifferent  or  sceptical  as  to — what  you  have  done 
me  the  honour  to  say.  But  really,  while  I  have  liked 
you,  that  is  I  do  not  dislike  it  when  you  come  to 
my  cousin's  house, — I  do  not  know  that  I  wish  to 
employ  a  teacher  in — the  subject  you  mentioned,  at 
least  not  in  the  immediate  future,"  I  hastily  con 
cluded.  "And  now,  shall  we  start  for  Jebail  ?"  and 
I  sped  up  that  path  I  had  found  so  hard  a  short  time 
ago,  like  a  thing  with  winged  feet,  until,  oh,  until  I 
saw  not  a  yard  away  right  where  I  would  have  to 
step,  a  grey,  mottled  snake,  waiting,  waiting! 

I  am  sure  C.  D.  in  his  office  heard  the  shriek  I 
sent  up.  Certainly  Mr.  Whitelaw  did,  for  with  a 
leap  or  two  of  his  long  legs  he  overtook  me,  and 
thrusting  me  aside,  exclaimed,  "Don't  be  fright 
ened,"  and  I  closed  my  eyes  and  knew  his  stick 
was  being  wielded  with  force,  for  I  heard  the  blows, 
and  then,  that  disgusting  blackness  began  to  shroud 
me  which  always  follows  a  fright.  I  did  not  faint, 
but  I  clung — clutched  Mr.  Whitelaw's  hand,  which 
happened  to  be  within  reach  somehow,  until  we  were 
in  that  car  where  he  found  C.  D.'s  emergency  flask 
and  came  to  me  with  a  thimbleful.  "Rachel,  won't 
you  try  and  swallow  this?  That  is  it.  You  are  all 
right  now,  are  you  not?"  His  hand  had  gathered 
both  my  cold,  trembling  ones  into  his.  "Dearest, 
forgive  me.  I  did  not  realize  how  selfish  I  have 
been,"  and  his  face  was  drawn  and  anxious. 


110     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

I  tried  to  smile  and  give  him  the  assurance  that 
there  was  nothing  to  forgive,  but  my  nerves  played 
me  false  and  off  I  went  into  miserable,  drivelling 
tears.  And  I  am  sure  the  poor  man  wished  he  had 
never  seen  a  woman.  He  made  no  comment,  simply 
waited  silently  a  moment,  then  plunged  into  the  car 
beside  me,  and  off  we  shot  up  the  road,  with  no 
more  attention  bestowed  on  a  foolish,  silly  girl  like 
me.  And  it  was  not  long  before  I  found  the  rush 
of  air  acting  as  a  medicine  for  my  ruffled  spirits. 

Not  a  word  did  we  speak  as  the  car  rolled  along 
eating  up  the  miles  until  we  were  going  down  the 
bumpy  road  to  Kate  Morgan's  house.  Just  as  we 
slowed  down  before  the  picket  fence,  Mr.  Whitelaw 
turned  to  me  and  said  quizzically,  "And  are  we  to 
be  friends,  Miss  Locke?"  holding  out  his  hand, 
smiling  frankly,  his  old  familiar  self. 

"Oh,  if  we  may,"  I  said,  yielding  my  hand  to  him, 
which  he  held  closely  between  both  of  his  until 
Kate  came  running  out,  his  eyes  never  leaving  my 
face. 

"Rachel,  this  is  so  good  of  you.  Why,  I  know 
Mr.  Whitelaw,"  as  in  my  confusion  I  began  a 
formal  presentation.  Then  addressing  him,  "I  have 
such  a  lot  of  new  specimens  to  show  you,  and  very 
different  to  any  we  have  seen." 

"I  am  eager  to  see  them,"  he  replied  as  he  ran 
the  car  inside  the  big  gate  and  Kate  and  I  went  up 
stairs. 

"Rachel,  somehow  you  look  tired.     But  Trablus 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      Ill 

is  a  long  way  from  here,  is  it  not?"  she  inquired 
affectionately. 

"Ah,  yes,"  I  sighed,  "a  very  long  way." 

The  Next  Day.  One  A.  M. 

Sleep  will  not  come  to-night  (small  wonder),  and 
I  have  lighted  my  candle  and  rummaged  in  the  desk 
for  paper  and  pencil  that  I  may  go  on  with  my  tale. 
Kate  would  not  listen  to  my  returning  with  Mr. 
Whitelaw,  and  here  I  am  in  her  pretty  guest  cham 
ber,  trying  to  forget  the  look  he  gave  me  when  I 
announced  I  was  going  to  spend  Sunday  here.  There 
was  pain  in  it — I  think — and,  now  Rachel  Locke, 
you  and  I  will  have  it  out. 

I  wonder  if  Mr.  Whitelaw  is  asleep.  He  and 
Kate  seem  great  friends,  and  I  really  felt  almost  de 
•rop,  when  they  became  so  absorbed  over  pre-his- 
torics  and  things.  Why  did  he  not  fall  in  love  with 
her  instead  of  me,  I  wonder.  She  is  much  more 
brainy  and  attractive,  and  besides  has  bigger  piles 
of  money. 

Mother  dear,  did  you  feel  as  I  do  when  father 
proposed  to  you  ?  And  did  you  say  "yes"  and  learn 
to  love  him  afterward?  I  wish  I  could  talk  with 
you  to-night.  I  know  you  would  like  him.  He  is 
manly  and  kind  and  very  wise  and  learned.  He 
would  make  you  a  good  son,  too,  and  take  tender 
care  of  the  woman  he  marries,  which  won't  be 
me!  He  has  nice  hands,  and  I  like  his  voice 
and  the  beautiful  English  he  uses,  and  when  he 


112     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

smiles,  my  smile,  away  in  back  in  his  eyes,  he  is 
adorable.  Only,  I  don't  want  to  marry  him — not 
now,  anyway.  And  yet  I  like  him,  and  if  he  had — 
had  wooed  me  before  he  spoke,  as  I  have  dreamed 
the  man  I  am  to  marry  would  do,  I  might  have  lis 
tened,  just  a  little.  The  gift  of  a  man's  love  is  not 
a  small  thing,  and  for  an  instant,  when  he  bade  me 
good-bye  in  leaving,  I  felt  queer !  Kate  was  down  in 
the  garden  gathering  roses  to  send  to  Betty  when 
he  said  two  or  three  words  which  I'd  write  just  to 
keep  them  always,  if  you  were  not  to  see  them.  I'll 
write  them  anyway,  because  you  are  my  precious 
mother,  and  you  can  skip  them  if  you  want  to. 
Coming  close  to  me  he  said  in  a  low,  grave  tone,  his 
hands  holding  mine  closely,  his  eyes  full  of  unspeak 
able  things,  "Take  it  or  leave  it,  Rachel,  but  the  love 
of  my  life  is  yours, — to-day,  and  to-morrow,  and  al 
ways,"  and  saying  this  he  brought  his  lips  to  my 
hands  for  a  long  second,  or  two  perhaps,  and  then 
turned  and  ran  down  the  stairs.  Oh,  dear!  I  did 
not  come  out  here  to  fall  in  love,  nor  have  a  man 
love  me  like  that.  His  kisses  burned. 

Sunday  Night. 

I  did  not  waken  early,  or  rather  it  was  quite  day 
light  before  I  dropped  off  to  sleep,  but  when  I  did 
open  my  eyes,  the  children  were  singing  grace,  their 
childish  voices  ringing  true  and  sweet  as  they  stood 
around  the  breakfast  table : 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     113 

"God  is  great  and  God  is  good, 
And  we  thank  Him  for  this  food ; 
By  His  hand  must  all  be  fed, 
Give  us,  Lord,  our  daily  Bread." 

You  should  see  how  quaint  and  attractive  they 
look  in  their  caps,  kerchiefs  and  aprons,  the  every 
day  uniform.  On  Sunday  they  are  in  white  wash 
dresses,  with  flowing  white  veils.  On  each  little 
left  arm  is  an  old-fashioned  black  silk  bag  with  a 
draw-string,  in  which  like  our  grandmothers,  is 
carried  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and  if  going  to 
church,  a  small  prayer-book  and  hymnal,  for  Kate 
is  an  Episcopalian,  you  remember. 

When  they  filed  into  the  chapel  this  morning  sing 
ing,  "Rejoice  Ye  Pure  in  Heart,"  in  English,  I  quite 
forgot  I  was  in  a  foreign  land. 

Kate  has  a  wonderful  work  here.  Her  ideas  are 
very  practical  and  wholesome.  I  really  believe  she 
feels  that  these  orphans  are  her  own  flesh  and  blood, 
for  there  is  not  a  bit  of  the  institutional  atmosphere 
about  the  place,  although  the  discipline  is  strict. 
Every  one  remarks  the  evidences  of  constructive 
work,  of  character  building.  She  has  no  use  for 
idleness  any  more  than  she  believes  that  mentality 
is  the  sum  and  substance  of  life.  The  industrial 
part  has  attained  a  high  degree  of  excellence.  She 
aims  to  develop  the  native  industries  rather  than  in 
troduce  new  ones  from  the  West.  These  children 
make  the  most  exquisite  Turkish  rugs.  Kate  learned 


114     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

how  to  weave  them  herself,  sitting  on  the  floor,  like 
the  Syrians,  so  that  she  no  longer  needs  an  expert 
to  tell  her  if  things  are  going  right,  although  she 
has  several  instructors  for  the  children.  Crocheting 
is  another  big  factor.  She  imports  her  thread  from 
Ireland,  and  employs  women  and  girls  in  their 
homes  to  make  Irish  lace.  Never,  even  in  Ireland, 
have  I  seen  more  perfect  work.  They  also  make 
those  wonderful  blouses  of  nothing  but  Irish  lace. 
You  should  see  the  little  folks'  gardens,  too,  and 
what  is  better,  eat  the  vegetables  and  fruits  thereof. 
I  must  tell  you  about  the  beautiful  evening  worship 
Kate  conducts.  After  supper  somewhere  near  seven 
o'clock,  Kate  sits  down  at  the  piano  and  strikes  a 
chord  or  two,  giving  a  leading  strain  of  a  familiar 
hymn,  which  after  a  second,  off  in  the  distance, 
sweet  voices  will  be  heard  singing.  To-night  it  was, 
"I  Think  When  I  Read  that  Sweet  Story  of  Old," 
coming  nearer  and  nearer,  as  the  white-robed  maid 
ens  slowly  paced  a  beautifully  directed  march,  weav 
ing  geometrical  figures  as  they  approached  their 
places  on  one  side  of  the  large  court.  Kate  then  began 
to  recite  softly,  the  one  hundred  and  fourth  Psalm, 
which  those  children  carried  through  to  the  end 
without  a  mistake.  Then  more  hymns  in  English 
and  Arabic,  followed  by  a  recitation  of  that  wonder 
ful  statement  of  Christian  doctrine,  the  Westminster 
catechism,  which  Kate  uses  because  its  grandeur  be 
longs,  she  says,  to  the  majesty  of  the  land  wherein 
Christianity  was  cradled,  and  because  it  suits  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     115 

people  better  than  the  one  of  her  own  church.  Now, 
isn't  that  being  broad-minded? 

But  the  most  touching  part  of  this  service  was 
when  they  knelt  in  prayer  and  all  recited,  "Our 
Father,"  ending  with,  "Now  I  lay  me." 

As  soon  as  they  got  up  from  their  knees,  each 
one  came  up  to  Kate  and  threw  her  arms  around 
her  neck  for  a  good-night  kiss  and  hug.  That  over, 
they  stopped  short  in  leaving  their  beloved  "mother" 
as  they  call  her,  and  dropped  an  old-fashioned 
courtesy  before  scampering  away  to  bed. 

It  has  been  a  queer  day — at  least  my  emotions 
have  not  been  normal.  I  heard  the  wonderful  sing 
ing,  but  underneath,  like  the  throb  of  a  great  organ, 
there  raced  through  my  brain,  "the  love  of  my  life 
is  yours,  to-day  and  to-morrow  and  always,"  and — 

A  Week  Later. 

How  shall  I  begin  to  transcribe  the  history  of  the 
past  week  ?  I  seem  to  have  lived  years  since  I  wrote 
that  "and"  at  the  close  of  my  last  entry  in  this  book. 
Kate,  so  capable  and  strong,  has  been  snatched  away 
from  this  work,  which  needs  her  so  much,  and  to 
night  lies  in  that  little  graveyard  in  Beyrout  near 
the  church,  where  all  the  American  dead  are. 

She  was  not  well  when  I  came  that  day  with  Mr. 
Whitelaw.  "Only  a  cold,"  she  insisted,  but  which 
seemed  to  tighten  its  hold  upon  her  all  day  Sunday, 
and  while  I  was  writing  after  going  to  my  room  for 
the  night,  I  heard  her  call.  Running  in,  I  found  her 


116     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

in  great  distress.  "In  front,"  she  gasped,  pointing 
to  her  chest. 

We  got  a  doctor,  who  from  the  moment  he  saw 
her  considered  her  condition  grave.  It  was  pneu 
monia,  with  the  heart  going  all  wrong.  The  morn 
ing  found  her  no  better,  worse  rather,  and  in  re 
sponse  to  a  telegram  to  C.  D.  for  which  I  paid 
three  times  the  usual  charge  that  it  be  delivered  im 
mediately,  within  three  hours  he  and  Betty  were 
here  and  Dr.  Saleeby  with  them.  How  thankful  I 
was  when  I  saw  the  car  coming  down  the  road. 

Kate  greeted  Dr.  Saleeby  with,  "I  know  I  am 
very  ill.  Is  there  time?  Oh,  my  work,  my  chil 
dren,"  said,  in  agonized  whispers,  for  every  breath 
was  torture.  Oh  mother,  I  cannot  tell  it  in  de 
tail  for  my  tears,  only  the  facts,  bare  and  cold. 
We  summoned  the  Consul  from  Beyrout — another 
thrice  paid  telegram  followed  by  C.  D/s  car  at  top 
speed,  and  all  the  while  Kate  kept  saying,  "Please, 
Rachel,  my  work,  my  work,  you  will?  Promise 
me,"  repeated  over  and  over  again. 

It  seems  Kate  had  made  a  will  which  the  Consul 
held  and  brought  with  him.  In  this  will  she  had  left 
her  entire  fortune  to  finance  the  work  she  had  begun 
and  made  such  a  success.  We  did  not  know  the 
situation,  nor  her  resources,  still  less  what  to  do. 
But  she  did,  sick  as  she  was  and  dying,  she  knew. 

When  the  Consul  came  in  she  whispered,  "alone," 
and  I  left  them  together.  Presently  David  and 
Betty  were  called  in  to  witness  her  signature  on  a 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     117 

piece  of  paper.  At  sunset  her  life  suddenly  went 
out,  and  all  night  long  the  weeping,  mourning  people 
of  the  town  came  and  went  in  silent,  loving  sym 
pathy.  At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  we 
shrouded  her  in  her  coffin  and  followed  by  those 
heart-broken  children  she  had  mothered,  carried  her 
to  the  chapel  where  the  funeral  was  held.  All  the 
shops  were  closed  and  the  entire  town,  it  seemed, 
came  to  do  her  honour.  My  heart  nearly  broke  as 
they  wrapped  the  blessed  Stars  and  Stripes  about  the 
coffin.  She  was  so  young  and  so  far  from  the  home 
land. 

The  funeral  over  we  started  for  Beyrout  and  the 
American  Cemetery,  the  casket  still  covered  with 
the  flag.  At  the  Beyrout  River  bridge,  we  were  met 
by  a  good  many  carriages  containing  Americans  and 
Syrians  who  knew  and  loved  her,  and  when  we 
reached  the  beautiful  American  church,  it  was  al 
most  full,  where  a  second  service  in  English  was 
held. 

Ah,  me,  how  sad  it  was  when,  to  the  strains  of 
"I  Know  That  My  Redeemer  Liveth,"  two  young 
American  men  from  the  College,  with  Cousin  David 
and  Mr.  Whitelaw,  lifted  Kate's  coffin  to  their 
shoulders  for  the  last  stage  in  her  earthly  journey, 
the  cypress-bordered  path  leading  to  her  resting- 
place.  At  the  grave,  which  somebody's  loving  hand 
had  lined  with  pink  roses,  the  enfolding  flag  was 
removed,  and  just  before  the  coffin  began  to  sink, 
the  Consul  stepped  forward  and  spread  a  small 


118     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

American  flag  right  over  her  stilled  heart.  And  I 
knew  she  would  not  feel  so  lonely  in  her  Turkish 
grave,  because  her  covering  was  the  symbol  of  her 
home  land  she  so  passionately  loved. 

I  have  not  told  you  of  the  blessed  white-haired 
missionary  saint  who  conducted  the  service  with 
such  large  sympathy  and  tenderness,  nor  of  the 
wonderful  choir  which  one  of  the  professors  in  the 
College  conducts  with  much  skill.  They  sang,  "Be 
neath  the  Cross  of  Jesus,"  her  favourite  hymn,  and 
beside  her  open  grave  these  verses  of  Rutherford's: 

"With  mercy  and  with  judgment 
My  web  of  life  He  wove, 
And  aye  the  dews  of  sorrows 
Were  lustred  by  His  love. 
I'll  bless  the  hand  that  guided, 
I'll  bless  the  heart  that  planned, 
When  throned  where  glory  reigneth 
In  Immanuel's  land. 

"The  bride  eyes  not  her  garments, 
But  her  dear  bridegroom's  face. 
I  will  not  gaze  on  glory, 
But  on  my  King  of  grace ; 
Not  on  the  crown  He  giveth, 
But  on  His  pierced  hand. 
The  Lamb  is  all  the  glory 

Of  Immanuel's  land." 
*  *  #  *  * 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      119 

It  is  another  day.  I  could  not  write  more.  And 
now  all  I  can  find  to  say  is,  who  am  I  to  be  asked 
to  do  this  thing?  Unfitted,  unwilling,  unready. 
That  is  how  I  feel,  and  I  know  you  will  think  I 
have  summed  up  the  situation  accurately.  The  pa 
per  Kate  signed  just  before  she  died  contained  these 
few  words :  "I  give  absolutely  and  without  reserve 
:o  my  beloved  friend  and  college  mate,  Rachel 
Locke,  such  moneys  as  may  be  on  deposit  in  the 
Imperial  Ottoman  Bank  in  Beyrout,  and  the  Chem 
ical  Bank  in  New  York,  that  she  may  draw  upon 
them  at  once,  and  I  beg  her  in  the  name  of  our 
friendship,  to  care  for  my  orphaned  children  in 
person,  or  make  such  provision  for  their  future  as 
she  in  consultation  with  David  Hackett,  her  cousin, 
and  John  Denise  Whitelaw,  my  friend,  together 
with  Robert  Fellowes  Mardin,  American  Consul 
General  in  Beyrout,  may  deem  wise  and  expedient. 

"I  lay  upon  her  this  sacred  trust,  together  with  the 
administration  of  my  estate,  giving  her  one-half  of 
the  same  outright,  the  rest  she  will  hold  in  trust  for 
the  work  here  in  Jebail,  Syria.  This  is  my  last  will 
and  testament."  I  can  see  now  the  Consul's  orifice 
in  which  we  sat  while  the  will  was  read.  The  stiff, 
upholstered  furniture,  the  Damascus  draperies  and 
inlaid  tables,  the  soft-footed  Kawass  bringing  coffee, 
while  through  the  open  casement,  away  to  the  north 
stretched  the  coast  line  ending  in  the  Masailaha 
Point.  I  was  acutely  sensible  of  my  surroundings, 
as  I  listened  to  words  which  may  completely  change 


120     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

the  conduct  of  my  life  and  set  my  feet  in  strange, 
untried  paths. 

What  do  I  know  about  orphans  and  their  up 
bringing,  who  never  even  had  a  sister  ?  The  money 
was  well  spent  in  the  long  cable  to  you  explaining 
the  situation,  and  your  answer  has  just  come,  that 
you  are  sailing  soon.  I  will  hold  on  until  you  get 
here.  You  will  know  what  I  ought  to  do. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  seemed  reluctant  to  have  me  as 
sume  the  responsibility  of  this  large  work,  while 
acknowledging  the  present  necessity  as  well  as  the 
opportunity.  I  imagine  he  thought,  and  rightly,  that 
I  was  not  sufficient  thereunto.  Of  course,  some  one 
had  to  be  here  ad  interim,  and  C.  D.,  who  has  that 
ligh  sense  of  honour  and  sacredness  of  a  trust  all  the 
Hacketts  have,  said  at  once  that  my  place  was  here 
until  we  could  arrive  at  some  satisfactory  solution  of 
the  matter.  When  you  are  once  here,  we  will  decide 
everything.  Meanwhile,  I  am  alone,  the  only 
foreign  woman  in  town,  and  counting  off  the  days 
until  you  come. 

We  have  no  idea  of  the  amount  of  Kate's  estate, 
but  the  Consul  thinks  it  is  somewhere  in  six  figures. 
It  appears  if  she  had  not  made  her  wishes  known 
in  this  formal  manner  by  appointing  me  to  take 
charge,  the  Consul  would  have  been  obliged  to  take 
possession  of  everything,  and  seal  it  up  until  her 
will  had  been  probated. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      121 

One  Day. 

I  get  up  early  every  morning  and  am  out  on  my 
rounds  by  6:30,  following  Kate's  custom,  although 
the  head  assistant  is  quite  capable  of  taking  charge 
of  all  house  details.  I  never  saw  such  shining 
lamps, — kerosene,  of  course,  and  Russian  oil  at  that. 
Remember  that  the  girls  are  not  large,  but  under 
her  direction  they  do  amazingly  good  work.  She 
sees  that  the  sleeping  rooms  and  all  details  of  sweep 
ing  and  dustings  are  carried  out  with  great  thor 
oughness.  She  has  a  passion  for  neatness  and  order. 
Her  name  in  Arabic  means  "dear,"  so  I  named  her 
straight  Miss  Dear,  which  I  think  she  likes. 

My  Second  Month. 

I  did  not  know  that  humans  could  be  so  wonder 
fully  good.  I  never  dreamed  that  such  helpful 
kindness — constructive  kindness — existed,  as  I  have 
experienced  since  I  was  picked  up  bodily  and  made 
to  be  a  missionary.  Here  is  a  sample  which  came 
to-day: 

Dear,  brave  Rachel: 

You  did  not  elect  to  enrol  under  our  banner 
of  loving  service,  you  poor  child,  and  I  would 
that  I  were  free  to  go  to  you  and  help  you  set 
your  household  in  order.  And  yet,  I  am  not  sure 
that  it  is  not  better  for  you  to  work  out  your 
own  problems.  But  you'll  get  stuck — often — 
and  when  you  cannot  see  any  way  out,  and  need 


122     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

the  advice  of  some  one  who  has  been  through 
the  business  of  learning  a  little  to  demonstrate 
to  this  people,  "how  He  lived,  how  He  loved 
and  what  He  did  among  men,"  write  out  your 
difficulties  and  mail  them  to  me,  and  if  I  can  I'll 
help. 

Only,  dear,  the  One  who  is  wiser  than  I  and 
who,  I  believe,  lives  right  with  you,  He  is  a 
very  present  help.  Do  you  know  the  little  verse  ? 

"Speak  to  Him  thou,  for  He  hears, 
And  spirit  with  spirit  may  meet, 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing, 
And  nearer  than  hands  and  feet." 

Affectionately  your  friend, 

"Miss  Delight." 

I  have  found  one  sure  task  laid  out  for  me,  the 
study  of  Arabic.  The  little  I  had  picked  up  in  Trab- 
lus  has  been  of  immeasurable  service  to  me,  but  it  is 
too  meagre. 

Hence  I  have  started  to  study  m  earnest.  Whether 
I  am  to  remain  here  the  rest  of  my  days,  I  do  not 
know,  but  this  I  see  clearly,  my  present  duty  is  to 
be  able  to  speak  the  language  of  the  people  I  live 
among  now.  Fortunately  I  speak  French,  which 
has  been  a  great  help,  for  that  is  a  second  language 
in  this  part  of  Syria.  Every  educated  person  speaks 
it  well.  I  received  a  second  letter  to-day  which  I 
want  you  to  see. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     123 

Dear, 

You  know  that  to-morrow  has  not  come  yet, 
so  do  not  try  to  fit  its  perplexities  in  with  to 
day's.  Heed  what  the  Arabs  say,  "Load  not 
upon  to-day  the  burdens  of  the  years,  for  each 
day  shall  bring  thee  its  portion." 

Perhaps  you  suspect  that  I  appreciate  in  some 
measure  your  bewilderment  at  being  thrust  into 
real  mission  work,  and  that  I  also  have  a  dim 
perception  of  the  enormity  of  your  task,  while 
(you  don't  know  this)  I  have  a  fine  sort  of  envy 
that  you  have  been  chosen  to  step  into  the  place 
left  vacant  by  your  friend's  death. 

I  am  not  so  sure  but  that  this  work  of  help 
ing  a  nation  to  its  rebirth  through  the  training 
of  individuals,  is  not  among  the  greatest  efforts 
of  civilized  man.  It  is  assuredly  greater  than 
turning  over  ancient  dustheaps,  and  perhaps 
means  more  than  recording  sales  of  soap  and 
silk,  or  even  writing  letters. 

Why  should  I  feel  the  throb  of  envy  at  being 
left  out,  when  there  is  not  the  slightest  reason 
for  my  being  counted  in?  I  wonder  if  you  can 
guess  why? 

Give  your  opportunity  a  fair  trial,  and  re 
member  I  am  one  of  those  designated  to  help 
you,  and,  besides,  am  most  desirous  that  you 
lean  a  trifle  harder  upon  my  arm  than  you  do 
upon  the  others.  Will  you?  It  is  strong  and 


124     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

anxious  to  serve  and  guard  you  most  of  all. 
Herein  I  am  selfish  again,  nevertheless,  am 
Faithfully  your  friend, 

John  Denise  Whitelaw. 

I  cannot  but  be  glad  some  one  thought  me  worth 
being  counted  in  on  something  big  and  tremendous. 
Was  it  Kate's  extremity  or  God's  opportunity? 
There  has  lurked  in  that  secret,  sealed  place  in  my 
heart  of  hearts,  where  I  keep  all  my  good  impulses 
and  highest  aspirations,  a  wish  that  I,  too,  might 
some  time  be  found  alongside  such  women  as  Miss 
Delight  and  Dr.  Mercy,  doing  real,  tangible,  con 
structive  work  of  some  sort.  I  had  thought  it 
might  be  perhaps  in  one  of  our  great,  needy  cities 
at  home,  New  York  possibly,  that  I  could  find  an 
outlet  for  what  I  have  felt  I  could  do,  after  my 
three  years  are  ended  out  here.  My  preparatory 
work  has  begun,  and  whether  I  will  measure  up  or 
not,  time  will  reveal.  I  only  know  I'll  try. 


Never  blame  the  absent  until  he  is 
present. — Arab  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

Another  Day. 

The  whole  world  is  akin,  is  it  not?  And  every 
body  has  some  sort  of  a  good  heart  if  you  know 
how  to  find  it.  I  saw  a  little  child  standing  at  the 
'ain  the  other  day.  Oh,  of  course,  I  have  not  ex 
plained  that  'ain  is  the  Arabic  for  fountain. 

There  is  one  near  our  house,  and  mother,  what 
do  you  think  that  little  girl  was  wearing?  A 
woman's  discarded  blouse,  and  she  was  so  tiny  that 
it  almost  dragged  on  the  ground,  while  her  little 
arms  and  hands  were  quite  engulfed  in  the  sleeves. 
She  had  on  no  other  garment,  poor  little  mite.  I 
sent  and  questioned  the  mother,  and  learned  that 
she  was  so  poor  she  had  no  clothing  for  the  child. 
Our  new  Dorcas  Society  is  the  result  of  the  need  of 
that  little  Moslem  girl. 

I  asked  the  women,  Moslem  and  Christian,  I  had 
come  to  know  in  town,  to  meet  here  and  sew  for 
her,  I  providing  the  materials.  In  one  afternoon 
we  made  all  she  needed  for  the  present.  And  then 
we  sent  for  little  Rahmey  (mercy),  and  our  good 
Ferrud  gave  her  a  bath  in  the  kitchen  before  the  fire, 
and  when  we  had  clothed  her  in  the  new  garments, 

127 


128     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

she  was  so  sweet  and  kissable.  The  mother  was 
quite  too  grateful,  for  the  next  day  she  appeared 
with  a  bundle  of  faggots  on  her  head — just  little 
pieces  of  wood  she  had  picked  up  on  the  beach  and 
by  the  roadside,  which  she  presented  to  me,  saying 
in  a  shy,  formal  manner,  "I  have  nothing  to  offer 
thee,  ya  sitt,  but  with  these  bits  thou  canst  mend 
thy  fire."  There  is  joy  in  service  like  this.  I  won 
der  if  one  might  not  call  it  the  "in-as-much-service"  ? 
I  am  learning  a  little  each  day  of  a  new  kind  of  joy. 
Kate  left  the  work  well  organized  and  I  am  try 
ing  to  carry  it  along  as  near  her  model  as  I  can. 
My  advisers,  C.  D.,  Mr.  Whitelaw  and  the  Consul, 
advised  finishing  the  upper  story  to  the  house  Kate 
had  already  begun,  for  we  are  much  cramped  for 
room.  Then  we  can  put  the  drawing  and  dining- 
rooms  to  their  proper  uses.  As  it  is,  the  children 
occupy  them  as  dormitories,  and  the  court  is  their 
dining-room. 

And  a  Night. 

Ah,  how  still  it  is.  The  only  sound  is  the  crunch 
of  the  heel  of  a  belated  employee  at  the  silk  factory 
below  us,  and  the  eternal  lap,  lap,  of  the  waves  on 
the  shore.  A  storm  is  brewing,  for  the  sea  has  been 
"giving  the  news"  all  day  and  now  is  become  a  dull, 
mufHed  roar. 

How  the  days  have  lagged  since  your  cable  saying 
you  were  coming.  I  had  counted  each  one  off  as  on 
a  rosary,  and  now— I  have  come  to  the  end,  where 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     129 

I  have  found  a  cross.  Your  letter  came  to-day. 
Dearest  mother,  how  did  it  happen?  You  were 
never  careless  in  your  life,  and  to  think  you  were 
so  near  me  as  to  be  going  on  the  steamer  and  then 
to  trip  and  break  your  hip,  and  have  to  be  ignomin- 
iously  carted  back  to  a  hospital  in  an  ambulance! 
Mother,  mother !  And  I  cannot  be  with  you — I  am 
tied  fast  here.  I  am  glad  you  went  to  St.  Luke's. 
I  shall  do  my  bead  counting  all  over  again,  until  you 
are  quite  well,  only  I'll  slip  them  along  by  minutes 
and  hours  instead  of  days,  with  prayers,  darling. 
But  I  wish  you  had  not  said  you  had  quite  aban 
doned  the  idea  of  coming.  I  suppose  the  doctor 
knows,  but  he  need  not  have  said  you  were  not  as 
young  as  you  were  once,  and  that  the  journey  even 
after  you  are  well  again,  must  be  postponed  indefi 
nitely. 

A  Brand-new  Day. 

I  sometimes  pinch  myself,  I  do  really,  to  see  if  it 
is  I,  and  if  I  am  awake  and  actually  in  Asia,  or  if 
I  am  seeing  all  this  strangeness  and  newness  in  a 
dream  from  which  I  shall  presently  waken  in  my 
bed  at  home. 

Some  one  has  characterized  the  domain  of  the 
Turk  as  the  Land  of  Yesterday.  To  me  it  is  a  land 
of  pure  delight.  I  am  not  one  of  those  Westerners 
who  are  impatient  with  the  slow-moving  East,  for 
after  living  here  a  while  one  suddenly  begins  to  ex 
perience  things:  that  there  are  no  elevated  trains  or 


130     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

electric-surface  cars  with  harsh  clang  of  bell,  no 
restless,  hurrying  throngs  upon  whose  tense  faces 
competition  has  been  using  its  graving  tool.  I  revel 
in  the  absence  of  hurry  and  strenuous  living.  One 
goes  for  a  walk,  for  instance,  and  does  not  attempt 
to  do  stunts  in  sprinting,  but  saunters  along  to  "smell 
the  air,"  looking  at  the  changing,  moodful  sea,  the 
clouds  drifting  along  the  mountain  crests,  and  the 
ever-changing  lights  on  sea  and  shore,  turning  home 
at  last,  with  hands  o'erflowing  with  cyclamens  and 
poppies,  narcissi  and  flaming  anemones,  to  a  late 
dinner,  eaten  perhaps  seated  on  cushions  on  your 
flat  housetop,  with  a  skemla  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl  before  you,  on  which  a  soft-eyed  maid  places 
relays  of  food  cooked  to  your  taste,  until  your  appe 
tite  is  satisfied.  After  you  have  cleansed  your  hands 
and  mouth  of  any  trace  of  food  in  the  scented  water 
the  sana'ah  pours  slowly  over  your  fingers  from  a 
brass  ewer  covered  with  wonderful  hammered-in  de 
signs,  you  settle  down  among  your  cushions  to  en 
joy  your  evening  in  a  contentment  the  Western 
world  might  well  be  envious  of  and  imitate,  too,  to 
some  extent.  Then,  if  you  are  so  blessed  (if  you 
are  a  man),  while  you  "drink"  your  nargeeleh  your 
wife,  in  flowing  garments,  with  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
fetches  her  a'ude  and  fingers  the  strings  in  your 
favourite  airs,  singing  them  softly  the  while.  Over 
head  the  stars  drift  silently  by,  and  night  deepens 
on  mountains  and  sea,  amid  a  calm  and  quiet  we 
know  little  of  in  our  busy,  Occidental  life.  Not  a 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     131 

sound  breaks  the  perfect  stillness  save  a  passing 
footfall  now  and  then  or  the  intoning  of  camel  bells 
away  up  on  the  carriage  road,  mingled  with  the  om 
nipresent  sigh  of  the  sea.  Delectable  odours  from 
your  garden  of  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers  seem  to 
have  form  and  being  as  they  are  presented  to  you 
by  the  gentlest  of  breezes. 

This  perfection  of  quiet  one  grows  to  love,  and 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  am  becoming  more 
and  more  enamoured  of  it,  and  this  town  in  partic 
ular  as  a  place  to  live  in. 

After  the  house  was  quiet  for  the  night,  I  took 
my  chair  out  on  the  balcony  and  watched  the  moon 
rise  out  of  a  notch  in  the  mountains  and  wondered 
how  I  happen  to  be  here.  I  am  getting  wonted,  as 
you  are  apt  to  say,  and  find  life  full  and  not  unat 
tractive  in  many  ways.  The  children  are  so  lovable, 
and  I  assure  you  they  keep  me  guessing  what  they 
will  do  next.  We  had  an  entertainment  the  other 
day,  at  the  end  of  the  term,  wherein  some  of  them 
took  part  in  little  pieces  recited  and  sung.  Tiny  Ne- 
beeha  was  the  star  performer.  She  is  four  years 
old  and  quite  the  most  original  of  all  the  children. 
Her  little  piece  was  to  be  a  surprise  for  me.  She  is 
so  small  that  Miss  Dear  stood  her  up  on  a  chair 
that  she  might  be  seen,  and  she  began:  "I  am  little 
Nabeeha,  I  can  do  many  things,  compliments  I  do 
not  know  how  to  make,  but  I  can  hand  you  this 
bouquet,"  and  she  was  supposed  to  present  me  a 
nosegay,  and  I  was  to  kiss  her  hand,  but  what  did 


132     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

she  do  but  coldly  pass  me  by  without  a  glance,  and 
present  it  to  C.  D.,  who  with  Betty  had  come  on 
for  the  occasion.  Mightily  flattered,  he  lifted  her 
high  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  rosy  lips.  But  she, 
once  on  her  feet  again,  grasped  his  hand  and  kissed 
it  before  raising  it  to  her  forehead,  in  token  of 
respect  Was  it  not  pretty? 

The  innate  dignity  of  life  here  is  impressive. 
Courtesy  is  as  natural  as  breathing,  and  none  so  low 
in  the  social  scale,  but  knows  the  amenities  of  life 
as  thoroughly  as  the  aristocrat.  The  salutations  most 
employed  contain  such  words  as  "peace,"  "blessed," 
"praise,"  "good,"  and  all  coupled  with  the  name  of 
Allah.  They  greet  each  other  in  the  morning — a 
passing  stranger  or  friend,  it  matters  not  whom, 
with,  "May  thy  morning  be  good,"  or,  "May  thy 
day  be  blessed,"  which  brings  the  reply,  "Greater 
happiness  to  thy  morning,"  or,  "And  thy  day  be 
blessed."  They  inquire  after  your  health,  "May  it 
be  God's  will  that  thy  health  is  good."  How  they 
live  in  Him.  "In  Him  we  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being."  You  offer  refreshments  to  a  guest,  who 
partakes,  and  then  with  hand  on  his  heart,  he  says, 
"Mayst  thou  long  be  spared  to  dispense  hospitality," 
to  which  you  respond,  "May  thy  life  be  prolonged." 

The  departing  guest,  after  asking  permission  to 
go,  is  furthered  on  his  way  with  "Go  in  peace,"  or, 
"Make  it  a  custom  to  visit  us."  One  starts  on  a 
journey  with  one's  friends  praying,  "Allah  go  with 
thee,"  and,  "Allah  make  it  smooth."  And  to  those 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     133 

left  behind  they  say,  "As  thou  hast  sent  forth,  so 
mayst  thou  receive  again." 

You  ask  a  mother,  not  of  her  children,  but  "the 
blesseds,"  and  add,  "Allah  preserve  them  to  thee," 
especially  if  they  are  sons.  The  most  beautiful  of 
all  is  the  way  they  say  good-night,  "Mayst  thou 
witness  the  morning  with  good,"  to  which  you  re 
spond,  "And  thou  upon  the  good."  It  is  so  diffi 
cult  to  put  into  cold  English  idioms  this  wonderful 
Oriental  imagery  of  speech — so  warm  and  full  of 
ripened  sentiment.  And  when  all  compliments  fail, 
they  fall  back  upon,  "May  He  prolong  thy  years," 
or,  "May  God  give  thee  peace,"  and,  oh,  yes,  they 
do  not  say  thank  you  either  as  we  do,  but,  "May 
thy  good  be  increased,"  or,  "Peace  to  thy  mouth," 
or,  "Peace  to  thy  hands,"  as  the  occasion  may  re 
quire. 

Inshallah,  and  bismallah,  "May  it  be  the  will  of 
God,"  and,  "In  the  name  of  God,"  are  two  very  com 
mon  expressions,  tokens  of  how  they  link  every  act 
with  God. 

It  is  curious  to  see  a  cook  begin  to  dish  up  the 
dinner  in  the  name  of  the  blessed  Trinity,  and  the 
sewing  woman  never  thinks  of  putting  shears  into 
a  new  garment  without  first  saying,  Umbarak,  "a 
blessing  to  the  wearer."  If  I  could  I  would  clothe 
my  descriptions  in  rhyme  as  the  only  fitting  way  to 
adequately  express  the  great  beauty  of  words  one 
hears  many  times  daily. 


134     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

Some  Experiences  for  You. 

One  day  I  am  going  to  write  a  whole  tome  on 
the  pests  of  the  East, — not  smallpox,  or  malaria,  or 
typhoid  fever,  or  even  bubonic  plague,  but  about 
those  things  which  creep  and  crawl  and  bite  and 
sting.  I'll  have  one  chapter  on  snakes.  There  are 
some  harmless  ones  which  are  just  as  good  to 
frighten  one  to  death  as  the  vipers  which  launch 
you  into  eternity  in  twenty  minutes  after  a  nip  at 
you.  We  found  one  in  the  kitchen  this  afternoon! 

Another  will  tell  the  secret  of  how  to  catch  and 
disable  fleas,  so  that  their  jump  and  tickle  will  be 
put  permanently  out  of  commission.  And  as  to  flies, 
— there  are  uncounted  millions  for  the  one  who  shall 
introduce  the  newest  effective  swatter  to  combat  the 
trillions  and  quadrillions  of  the  lineal  descendants 
of  one  of  the  plagues — which  one  was  it? — of 
Egypt. 

The  third  plague  is  still  with  us,  and  I  would  be 
willing  to  give  a  sum  commensurate  with  my  relief 
incident  thereupon,  to  the  one  who  shall  tell  how 
adequately  to  deal  with  that  particular  legacy  of 
Aaron's  rod.  Can't  someone  discover  how  to  in 
duce  race  suicide  among  them? 

The  heading  of  one  chapter  will  read,  "What  I 
know  about  B-flats,  their  habitats,  etc.  Also  mos- 
quitos,  both  of  which  are  sleep  banishers  and  night 
prowlers."  I  might  add  a  word  or  two  regarding 
scorpions  and  centipedes,  and  big,  hairy  spiders 
(harmless),  not  forgetting  the  lizard,  which  scam- 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     135 

pers  up  the  side  of  the  house,  and  the  solemn, 
bulging-eyed  chameleon  on  the  wall  and  wayside 
rock,  both  of  which  are  harmless,  but  interesting 
because  respectful  and  keep  their  distance,  as  is  the 
white  Abu  Brice,  which  frequents  the  inside  of  the 
house  and  hides  behind  pictures  and  books. 

Twice  lately  I  nearly  came  into  collision  with 
scorpions.  I  reached  out  for  a  book  and  found 
one  crawling  over  it,  and  the  other  time,  a  specially 
large  one  disputed  with  me  for  possession  of  my 
hairbrush,  and  won,  I  assure  you.  The  sting  is  not 
very  poisonous,  but  is  exquisite  agony  for  twenty- 
four  hours. 

The  Victor  Day. 

What  a  mother  you  are.  You  have  never  out 
grown  your  delight  in  making  people  unexpectedly 
happy.  I  have  many  lovely  memories  of  the  unan 
ticipated  with  which  you  delighted  to  crowd  my 
young  life.  Shall  I  tell  you  one?  Once,  when  we 
were  living  in  Deanston,  and  I  was  quite  a  small 
child.  I  came  home  from  school,  ravenously  hungry. 
You  had  gone  out,  but  on  the  dining-room  table  I 
found  a  bowl  of  bread  and  creamy  milk  ready  for 
me,  and  covering  it  was  a  piece  of  paper  on  which 
you  had  printed,  "Mother  has  gone  to  see  a  sick 
baby."  The  paper  has  disappeared,  but  not  the 
memory  that  mother  knew  I  would  be  hungry  that 
long-ago  afternoon. 

Well,  to-day  I  heard  the  honk  of  a  car  near  the 


136     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

house,  and  there  was  C.  D.'s  coming  down  the  road 
with  only  Deebna  in  it,  and  a  great  packing  box  in 
the  tonneau.  By  the  time  Deebna  had  slowed  down 
at  the  gate  I  was  there.  "El  Khawajah,  say  you 
like  this  box.  We  get  from  custom  house  this  day," 
was  his  greeting  in  his  lovely,  quaint  English. 
"What  is  in  it?  Who  sent  it?" 
"Khawajah  say  she  come  from  America." 
I  could  hardly  wait  for  our  man  to  get  the  cover 
off,  I  was  so  excited.  One  board  was  ripped  loose, 
and  I  got  a  glimpse  of  mahogany.  "A  table !  Just 
what  I  need  between  the  drawing-room  windows," 
I  exclaimed.  But  when  another  and  yet  another 
was  removed,  I  was  sure  it  was  a  Martha  Washing 
ton  sewing  table.  A  wee  bit  of  disappointment  crept 
into  my  heart,  as  Kate's  is  here  and  in  my  room. 
But  no!  When  all  the  papers  were  off,  it  was  a 
Victrola!  Oh,  you  dear.  I  just  cried  for  joy,  and 
then  rang  the  big  emergency  bell  and  everybody 
came  running,  children,  teachers  and  servants  and 
icarby  neighbours  who  have  learned  our  ways.  The 
children  dropped  on  the  floor  and  we  found  seats  for 
the  grown-ups,  and  then  I  started  it.  By  blessed 
good  luck  the  first  record  I  unwrapped  was  that  of 
the  Music  Lovers  Choral  Union  singing  "America." 
A  patriotic  Arabic  hymn  has  been  set  to  that  tune, 
and  as  the  opening  bars  poured  out  of  that  box,  I 
jumped  to  my  feet  and  so  did  every  one  else,  for 
they  recognized  the  tune,  and  we  all  began  to  sing, 
I  in  English,  the  others  in  Arabic,  and  with  that 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     137 

wonder  instrument  leading  we  sang  all  four  verses 
as  though  at  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration. 

"What  is  it?"  "Where  did  you  get  it?"  "Who 
made  it  ?"  "Where  did  you  get  it  ?"  "How  did  they 
get  inside  of  it  ?"  "Mashallah,  how  clever  you  Ameri 
cans  are,"  were  some  of  the  remarks  which  rained 
upon  me.  Wee  Zehra  went  up  to  it,  patted  it  with 
her  little  fat  hand,  then  came  to  me  and  said,  "Ba'ad, 
ba'ad,"  "more,  more."  And  we  had  more  and  more, 
and  I  shut  my  eyes  and  saw  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  with  Caruso  and  Schumann-Heinck  and 
Melba  and  all  the  rest  on  the  stage,  singing  for  me 
alone.  How  the  Pilgrims'  Chorus  rang  out,  and 
who  was  it  sang  Elizabeth's  prayer?  But  perhaps 
the  one  I  loved  the  best  was  Schumann-Heinck  sing 
ing  "Stille  Nacht."  I  am  so  pleased  you  sent  some 
hymns.  We  wound  up  with  the  Doxology,  sung 
with  Arabic  words. 

Thank  you,  thank  you  for  this  newest  thought  for 
me  and  the  unanticipated  pleasure  which  will  last 
for  many  a  day,  and  be  solace  for  lonesome  hours. 
And  the  Volga  Boat  song.  You  did  not  forget  my 
love  for  Russian  music,  and  the  Hallelujah  Chorus ! 
But  the  most  wonderful  of  all  was  the  nightingale 
song.  I  can  well  believe  your  elucidation  on  the 
record,  that  a  hundred  records  were  spoiled  before 
a  perfect  one  was  secured.  I  am  so  grateful  and 
surprised  that  I  am  incoherent,  but  I  am  simply 
overwhelmed,  you  blessed  mother. 


138     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

Roll  Call  for  You. 

I  have  been  intending  to  give  you  the  roster  of 
our  household,  for  put  into  English  it  has  a  strange 
sound  to  Western  ears. 

Teachers. 

Miss  Dear  Miss  Enough 

Miss  Emerald  Miss  Jessamine 

Children. 

Flower  Sun  Aristocracy 

Diamond  Darling  Pearl 

The  Last  Happiness  Rose 

Merciful  Peace  India 

Queen  Full  Moon  Violette 

Meekness  Kindness  Beautiful 

Apple  Carnation  Joy 

Lily  Russia  Clever 

Spain  France  Lady  of  the  House 

The  servants  are:  Servant  of  God,  Little  Dear, 
only  she  is  a  great  big  blessed  one.  The  Mother  of 
Jacob  has  charge  of  the  nursery,  and  Good  is  the 
housemaid. 

I  have  succeeded  in  memorizing  all  these  names  in 
Arabic,  and  am  able  to  say  my  Bible  verse  at  supper 
with  the  rest.  You  should  have  heard  them  exclaim 
the  first  time  I  tried  to  say  one,  Sellim  timmik, 
"Peace  to  thy  mouth,"  and  I  felt  very  proud  when 
they  added,  "Now  thou  canst  speak  our  language." 
I  can  also  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  quite  rapidly  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     139 

carry  on  a  conversation  all  alone  if  the  theme  be  not 
too  lofty. 

The  Edge  of  the  Day. 

The  mellowness  of  the  Arabic  is  what  makes  it 
different  from  any  other  language  spoken  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  There  is  nothing  young  about  it. 
There  has  been  plenty  of  time  for  it  to  ripen,  for 
nothing  is  ever  done  in  a  hurry  in  this  land  of  leis 
ure.  The  idioms  are  especially  rich  and  beautiful. 
I  am  minded  of  this  by  the  heading  I  have  put  for 
you.  When  evening  approaches  we  say,  not  the 
close  of  day,  but  the  edge  of  it,  or  the  last  of  it,  an 
expression  probably  due  to  the  way  the  sun  sinks 
below  the  western  sea.  When  there  remains  but  the 
edge  visible,  it  is  indeed,  the  edge  of  the  day,  for 
directly  it  disappears  below  the  horizon,  the  night  is 
nigh. 

Here  is  another  age-long  idiom.  This  afternoon 
I  saw  a  Bedouin  woman  on  the  road,  and  to  be  po 
lite,  asked  her  where  she  was  going.  Her  quaint 
reply  was,  "My  face  is  set  towards  Trablus." 
Wasn't  there  Someone  whose  face  was  set  towards 
Jerusalem  once?  In  spite  of  the  centuries,  the 
speech  of  the  people  is  cast  in  the  same  mould  as 
when  He  walked  these  Syrian  ways,  and  loved  and 
healed  the  poor  and  sick. 

It  is  the  edge  of  my  day,  and  the  time  I  love  best. 
Supper  is  over  and  in  the  old  porch  chair  with  the 
high  back,  I  am  sitting  on  the  balcony  to  watch  the 


140     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

evening  deepen  and  the  daylight  fade  away  and  be 
lost  in  the  darkness.  Presently  I  shall  hear  a  soft 
footfall,  and  there  will  be  Ferrud  bringing  my  lovely 
Damascus  carved  table  to  place  beside  me.  And  I 
shall  know  what  is  coming.  I  shall  know  she  has 
slipped  down  to  my  rose  geranium  hedge  and 
plucked  a  leaf,  to  be  dropped  in  the  water  already 
on  the  fire  for  my  cup  of  coffee.  The  water  will 
have  been  duly  sweetened  and  now  she  will  add 
the  leaf,  and  when  it  comes  to  a  boil,  the  pulverized 
Mocha  will  be  as  carefully  dropped  in,  and  as  care 
fully  manipulated — three  times  it  may  boil  quite  up 
to  the  top  of  the  pot,  and  form  a  mendil — "veil"  of 
foam — and  three  times  gently  lifted  off  by  the 
straight-out  handle,  and  softly  tapped  on  the  range 
before  being  poured  into  my  hammered  brass  coffee 
pot,  like  the  table  from  Damascus.  Then  in  the 
centre  of  a  tray  adorned  with  peacocks  and  things 
graven  on  it,  and  flanked  by  the  tiny  cups  and 
saucers,  it  will  be  placed.  Again  I  hear  steps,  and 
get  a  whiff  of  coming  joy.  I  shall  drink  the  con 
coction,  and  think  I  am  smelling  the  rose  geranium 
hedge,  instead  of  drinking  coffee. 

Ah,  there  comes  the  moon,  and  it  is  so  bright,  I 
can  see  to  write  without  the  aid  of  candle  or  lamp. 
Down  in  the  wady  of  the  brook  in  which  never  a 
drop  of  water  is  seen,  the  startling  cry  of  the  jack 
als  sounded  but  now,  weird  and  plaintive  like  the 
wail  of  a  lost  child.  Over  at  our  neighbour's  by  the 
sea  I  hear  the  beat  on  a  deirbecker,  accompanied  by 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     141 

the  soft  clapping  of  hands  marking  the  rhythm. 
Someone  is  dancing,  one  of  the  seven  daughters, 
probably.  A  wheeling,  blundering  bat  sailed  by 
close  to  my  face  a  minute  ago,  and  the  cicadas  in 
the  eucalyptus  tree  shrill  out  their  note,  while  faintly 
borne  on  the  breeze  I  hear  the  muezzin's  call  from 
the  market  place.  The  lights  have  gone  out  across 
the  way  and  up  on  the  hillside.  Far  off  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  Nahr  Ibrahim — River  Adonis — I  see 
the  moving  lights  of  two  carriages  coming  down  the 
road,  bringing  passengers  from  the  last  train,  which 
does  not  return  to  Beyrout,  but  "sleeps"  at  Aintain, 
the  terminus.  I'll  wait  until  they  get  to  the  carob 
tree  just  beyond  the  old  mill,  and  watch  them 
twinkle  in  and  out  of  sight,  until  at  last  they  roll 
across  the  bridge.  Then  I  will  go  to  bed  myself. 
The  edge  of  the  day  is  swallowed  up  of  night,  al 
beit  is  as  light  as  day.  Good-night,  ya  umwy,  "oh, 
my  mother." 

There  have  been  long  silences — wide  gaps  in  this 
volume.  I  have  had  everything  to  learn  from  the 
beginning, — language, — how  to  take  up  the  dropped 
stitches  of  Kate's  work,  and  go  on  from  where  she 
left  off.  It  has  been  Ignorance  attempting  the  part 
of  Experience,  and  everything  was  so  strange  and 
unknown,  that  the  physical  part  has  been  a  new 
trying  endeavour  to  simply  keep  going  and  trying  to 
catch  up.  It  is  nearly  a  year  since  dear  Kate  went 


142     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

away,  and  my  hands  are  tired  holding  on  while  I 
have  been  learning  a  new  trade. 

The  almond  trees  have  bloomed  and  faded,  the 
oranges  have  wafted  their  luscious  perfume  up  from 
the  garden  and  begun  to  form  the  tiny  round  but 
tons  which  give  promise  of  golden  fulfilment  later 
on,  and  this  book  is  still  unfinished.  I  did  not  have 
the  time  nor  energy  to  write  once  a  month,  even. 
But  you  have  had  letters  to  tell  of  my  well  being. 
But  now  I  am  beginning  to  breathe  more  freely,  and 
I  hope  this  intimate  book  will  not  remain  full  of 
blank  pages  as  at  present. 

The  Syrian  Flower  Year. 

It  is  springtime,  when  the  bulbul  nests  and  the 
hussun  lights  for  a  brief  space  on  the  tip  of  a 
swaying  branch,  and  trills  and  chirps  because  the 
winter  is  over  and  gone.  The  almond  trees  usher 
this  beautiful  season  in  early  in  February, — Shabot 
the  Fitful,  which  "opens  an  eye  and  shuts  an  eye," 
frowns  darkly  one  minute  and  smiles  blandly  the 
next.  "No  matter  how  much  of  a  rumpus  it  kicks 
up,  the  smell  of  summer  is  in  it,"  the  weather-wise 
say,  eyen  when  the  winds  in  their  fury  tear  the  tiles 
from  your  roof  and  the  rains  descend  and  beat,  and 
thunder  roars.  The  storm  never  brings  back  the 
winter,  and  by  the  time  the  almond  harbingers 
drop  their  white  petals,  the  orange  trees  radiate 
sweetness  and  loveliness,  and  the  peach  and  apricots 
not  to  be  outdone,  are  clad  in  pink  and  white  along 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     143 

with  the  plums.  Later  on  the  pomegranates  blaze 
with  scarlet  bells,  which  somehow  must  belong  to 
the  fairies  and  be  rung  at  night,  when  mortals  sleep. 
And  they  hold  on  to  their  colour,  too,  even  in  the 
perfected  fruit.  Underfoot  in  the  fields  vivid  with 
the  green  of  growing  grain,  by  the  roadside  and  in 
the  crannies  of  the  plentiful  rocks,  are  myriads  and 
millions  of  cyclamens,  gaudy  scarlet  poppies,  and 
purple,  red  and  white  anemones — the  Rose  of  Sha 
ron.  Up  by  the  Castle  are  quantities  of  blue  irises, 
which  are  not  indigenous,  but  evidences  of  the 
Crusading  occupation  and  the  longing  of  some  one 
for  the  familiar,  and  a  bit  of  the  home  land  in  the 
inhospitable  domain  of  the  Saracen. 

The  black  calla  abounds  and  is  very  curious  and  a 
great  favourite  of  mine.  It  is  shaped  like  a  calla, 
only  instead  of  being  white  it  is  green,  with  great, 
covering  splotches  of  jet  black  on  it,  as  though 
some  one  had  showered  it  plentifully  with  ink.  It 
has  a  disagreeable  odour,  which  makes  it  unpopular, 
but  I  carefully  tend  one  which  appeared  in  my 
garden  of  its  own  free  will.  Squills  grow  wild  and 
have  a  whorl  of  delicate  white  blossoms,  which  are 
very  pretty,  while  everywhere  you  see  Queen  Anne's 
Lace.  Scotch  broom  abounds,  too,  and  heather  on 
the  heights.  The  thistles  are  very  attractive.  There 
are  the  great  yellow  pompoms  and  light  purple  ones 
and  pinks,  very  thorny,  but  a  joy  when  massed  in 
a  big  brass  bowl  on  the  piano. 

Narcissus  vies  with  the  commoner  flowers, — the 


144     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

cyclamen,  poppies  and  anemones,  as  though  trying 
to  be  the  most  plentiful,  and  the  children  come  home 
from  their  walks  with  their  little  hands  full  of  it. 
Of  course  my  flower  garden  is  a  delight  during  the 
rainy  season  and  spring.  It  is  not  large,  like  Miss 
Delight's,  but  it  is  full  of  the  same  roses  and  gera 
niums,  callas  and  violets.  I  have  been  carefully 
tending  a  wistaria  vine  I  brought  from  Trablus,  but 
it  grows  very  slowly.  The  towering  peppyer  trees 
Kate  raised  from  the  seed,  sowing  them  first  in  a 
flower-pot.  They  are  big  trees  now  and  have  trans 
formed  the  garden,  giving  it  shade  and  conserving 
the  moisture  in  the  dry,  rainless  summers.  You 
know,  don't  you,  that  spice  pepper  does  not  grow 
on  these  trees,  but  on  a  vine,  somewhere  in  the 
tropics.  There  is  a  promising  lilac  bush,  which  dear 
Kate  loved  and  lavished  care  upon  because  it  re 
minded  her  of  those  in  her  childhood's  garden.  It 
should  bloom  in  some  near  springtime.  And  I  wish 
you  could  see  the  care  we  bestow  upon  this  small 
garden  place  when  the  rains  cease.  I  practise  dry 
farming  in  it  after  a  very  limited  fashion.  After 
giving  my  roses  a  big  drink  in  the  trench  dug 
around  the  roots,  it  is  filled  in  with  dry  earth,  which 
holds  the  moisture  down  where  it  is  needed,  and  this 
one  watering  suffices  for  a  week.  If  the  wind  could 
be  depended  upon  to  blow  when  the  beans  and  roses 
needed  to  be  watered  and  make  that  American  wind 
mill  from  Illinois  turn  with  sufficient  velocity  to 
send  the  water  through  the  conduits  to  the  gardens, 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     145 

it  would  be  a  comfort.  But  after  the  kublie,  the 
southwest  wind,  ceases  at  the  end  of  July  my  vege 
tables  and  flowers  languish.  If  I  only  had  an  oil 
engine  to  pump  when  wind  power  is  lacking,  I  would 
be  glad.  There!  Is  the  hint  broad  enough?  lam 
sure  we  will  be  very  grateful  if  you  should  feel 
inclined  to  give  this  institution  the  best  one  you  can 
afford.  I  am  putting  all  my  pennies  and  Kate's,  too, 
this  year  into  the  alterations  she  would  have  made 
if  she  were  here.  Ah  me !  She  is  in  a  fairer  spring 
time  far  away. 

This  may  well  be  called  Discovery  Day,  as  you 
will  see  from  what  follows.  Pure  water  is  always 
a  problem  here,  and  that  which  comes  from  the  pub 
lic  wells  has  a  very  peculiar  taste, — is  a  little  brack 
ish  and  seems  thick  somehow,  when  you  swallow  it. 
We  have  always  used  it,  Kate  did,  until  one  day  I 
raised  a  glass  I  had  been  drinking  from  to  the  light 
and  beheld  a  gay  and  festive  dance  going  on  in  it, 
in  which  myriads  of  tiny  white  creatures  were  en 
gaged.  After  that  I  concluded  I  would  have  it 
boiled  and  thus  perhaps  overcome  the  many  cases  of 
indigestion  the  children  and  I  constantly  developed. 

But  cooked  water  palls  after  a  time,  and  I  decided 
to  clean  out  an  unused  well  in  the  Yuseph  Effendeh 
garden  of  oranges — the  Mandarin  variety  is  what 
that  high-sounding  name  means.  This  well  is  sup 
posed  to  be  the  oldest  one  in  town  and  had  not  been 
cleaned,  no  one  knew  when,  nor  used  for  years. 


146     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

Accordingly  I  had  a  windlass  rigged  up  with  a  kero 
sene  oil  tin  converted  into  a  bucket  by  means  of  a 
piece  of  wood  nailed  across  the  end  we  had  opened, 
and  while  not  very  fancy,  it  did  the  work. 

After  emptying  the  well  and  the  bottom  was  sup 
posed  to  have  been  reached,  we  found  heaps  and 
heaps  of  broken  jars,  which  had  to  be  removed. 
There  was  a  huge  pile  outside  when  the  real  bottom 
was  struck,  and  some  of  it  of  a  kind  no  one  had 
ever  seen  before,  which  fact  demonstrates  how  long 
it  had  been  since  the  last  cleaning. 

Then  I  had  another  idea.  There  is  an  under 
ground  passage  in  the  Castle  leading  to  fresh  water. 
All  Crusading  castles  have  one  against  a  time  of 
siege.  I  argued,  if  our  well  was  the  oldest  in  J., 
this  passage  would  naturally  end  in  it,  and  so  I  in 
structed  the  workmen  to  be  alert  and  see  if  they 
could  not  find  it.  But  they  could  only  see  the  baskets 
let  down  to  put  the  broken  jars  in.  Then  Abdullah 
went  down  to  inspect  the  work,  and  in  coming  up 
he  found  an  opening,  perhaps  fifteen  feet  from  the 
surface,  and  came  in  much  excitement  with  the 
news.  I  was  as  excited  as  he,  and  after  providing 
him  with  a  lantern,  candles  and  matches,  followed  to 
investigate  myself. 

Down  he  swung  into  the  well,  called  up  when  he 
reached  the  opening,  and  said  he  had  found  a  cedar 
plank,  six  or  eight  inches  thick  at  right  angles  to 
the  opening  on  which  he  was  standing.  This  open 
ing,  by  the  aid  of  the  lantern,  showed  a  stairway 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     147 

leading  up  towards  the  house.  Presently  I  heard 
his  voice  seemingly  under  my  feet,  that  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  steps,  where  the  passage  was 
roofed  over  with  a  wide  flat  stone,  and  that  he 
thought  he  could  open  it  up  from  the  surface,  and 
I  could  see  for  myself  this  underground  thing.  So 
out  he  came  and  soon  uncovered  and  removed  the 
stone,  and  sure  enough,  I  dropped  through  the 
opening  and  went  down  into  the  heart  of  my  well ! 
A  spot  the  sun  had  never  penetrated  to  before.  The 
stairway  was  built  of  dressed  stone  steps,  sides  and 
roof,  and  while  there  were  but  ten  or  twelve  steps 
before  the  surface  was  reached,  I  am  sure  some 
where  within  our  grounds  I  shall  find  the  connecting 
link  with  that  leading  into  the  Castle.  The  continu 
ity  was  broken,  apparently,  when  a  building  was 
erected,  and  the  ground  levelled  for  the  foundation. 

The  water  is  pure,  and  much  less  brackish  than 
that  in  the  public  wells,  so  that  I  feel  a  good  job 
was  done  in  cleaning  it  out,  and  incidentally  in  dis 
covering  the  passageway.  Won't  Mr.  Whitelaw  be 
interested  when  he  hears  about  my  turning  into  an 
archaeologist ! 

At  last  this  book  is  full.  I  think  I  can  promise 
you  that  the  future  issues  of  my  Oriental  history 
will  reach  you  with  greater  regularity. 


The  people  of  this  world  are  as  pas 
sengers  on  a  ship.  It  moves  on  with 
them  while  they  sleep. — Arab  Proverb. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

One  of  the  sights  I  have  longed  to  see  ever  since 
I  could  remember  is  a  cedar  tree  on  Mt.  Lebanon. 
And  do  you  know  why?  When  I  was  quite  small 
I  heard  our  old  rector,  Dr.  DeLong,  tell  about  a 
man  who  was  good  and  true  and  might  be  likened  to 
a  Cedar  of  Lebanon.  I  do  not  remember  anything 
else  about  it,  simply  the  comparison.  One  day  I 
told  this  to  Miss  Delight  and  my  life-long  desire, 
and  she  exclaimed,  "That  must  have  been  said  about 
one  of  our  missionaries,  whom  the  Syrians  always 
called  Arz  Libnan,  a  Cedar  of  Lebanon."  And  she 
did  not  forget  my  wish,  for  the  other  day  she  wrote 
to  say  a  party  was  going  for  a  fortnight's  camping 
under  the  Cedars,  Arz  ar  Rub,  and  would  I  not  like 
to  go  along. 

When  I  found  I  could  arrange  to  be  gone  that 
length  of  time,  there  was  but  one  answer  to  that 
proposition,  and — but  I  will  begin  at  the  beginning, 
as  you  like  to  have  me.  How  often  have  you  told 
me,  "Child,  don't  jumble  your  stories.  Be  orderly." 
I  can  hear  your  very  tones  in  those  last  words.  I 
only  wish  you  could  have  been  with  us,  be  with  us, 
for  I  am  at  the  beginning  of  something  very  won 
derful  and  new. 

By  the  way  of  preface  I  would  say  that  we  came 
151 


152     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

yesterday,  and  that  the  party  consists  of  twelve  men 
and  women,  mostly  young  like  your  daughter,  and 
complete  strangers  to  her. 

Miss  Delight  is  the  chaperone,  and  Mr.  White- 
law,  who  seems  somehow  to  get  invited  to  most 
things  I  happen  to  belong  to,  is  one  of  the  party, 
and  the  only  one  I  really  know.  I  mention  this  fact, 
lest  you  think  I  have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Miss  D.  did  her  own  inviting,  and  asked  no  sug 
gestions  from  anyone.  But  everybody  likes  Mr.  W., 
and  it  is  rather  jolly  to  have  him  around.  I  have 
missed  him  this  year,  I'll  whisper  to  you.  But 
mother  dear,  think  how  few  persons  I  know  in  this 
far-off  land. 

We  are  living  in  tents,  Miss  Delight  and  I  shar 
ing  one  together.  There  is  one  large  one,  which 
is  dining-room  and  sitting-room  combined.  We 
sleep  on  mattresses  on  the  ground,  and  eat  in  the 
same  primitive  fashion.  I  enjoy  it  immensely,  this 
getting  away  from  conventions. 

Now  I  am  ready  to  begin  with  my  tale  of  the 
Cedars  of  God,  as  the  Bible  calls  them.  The  long 
day  on  horseback,  all  the  way  up,  up,  ever  higher 
and  higher,  until  we  pitched  our  tents  under  the 
thick  branches  of  these  old  trees,  was  back-breaking, 
but  glorious. 

The  month  is  September — the  most  glorious  of 
the  Syrian  year,  when  the  Hunter's  moon  rides 
high,  and  we  scan  the  sky  for  The  Giant, — Orion 
to  come  back  as  herald  for  Sirius  the  Lustrous.  And 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     153 

we  can  see  them  if  we  wait  long  enough  before 
going  to  bed.  I  had  never  really  seen  the  stars  until 
I  came  to  live  under  the  shadow  of  the  Lebanon. 

We  were  well  out  in  the  Kura,  riding  in  and  out 
among  the  olive  trees  by  sun-up.  The  grey  leaves 
glistened  with  dew;  the  tang  of  the  dried  sagebush 
fire  heating  tannur  and  sajh  for  baking,  crept  into 
our  nostrils  with  a  clean,  aromatic  smell.  A  church 
we  passed  gave  a  greeting  of  incense  and  sanctity; 
a  woman  with  her  empty  water  jar  on  her  shoulder 
lowered  it,  and  going  up,  kissed  a  corner  of  the  in- 
senate  building,  reverently  crossing  herself,  ere  she 
passed  by  to  "fill"  at  the  fountain.  We  met  the 
train  of  mules  with  its  gaily  decorated  and  belled 
leader,  laden  with  dripping  packs  of  snow  cut  from 
the  higher  parts  of  the  mountains,  en  route  to  the 
city  that  the  glasses  of  sherbat  (accent  the  last  syl 
lable,  sherbat}  served  in  cafe  and  home,  be  nice  and 
cool  and  refreshing  for  those  forced  to  abide  in 
town.  I  hope  C.  D.  gets  some.  Little  did  I  dream 
when  as  a  child  I  read  in  The  Talisman  of  the 
Saracen  serving  drinks  cooled  with  snow  from 
Lebanon,  that  I  would  ever  quaff  similar  refresh 
ment,  least  of  all  go  to  a  Lebanon  snow  bank,  and 
camp  near  it  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 

We  ate  fresh  figs  with  the  dew  and  the  coolness 
of  the  night  still  upon  them,  and  grapes  from  which 
no  rough  hand  had  brushed  the  bloom,  as  we  rested 
under  a  spreading  carob  tree, — perhaps  the  very 
one  the  Prodigal  Son  ate  the  husks  from.  This  is 


154     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

certainly  a  Far  Country  for  some  of  us.  It  was  the 
natur,  "watchman,"  of  a  vineyard,  who  politely  sup 
plied  this  most  welcome  refreshment,  and  a  passing 
Rebecca  lowered  her  brimming  jar  just  filled  at  the 
gushing  fountain,  and  gave  us  a  cool  draught  as 
well  as  "God  be  with  you."  Still  another  let  us  buy 
of  her  hot,  fresh,  crisp  bread,  thin  as  paper,  we 
saw  her  bake  and  peel  off  the  sajh,  and,  oh,  so  good. 
And  what  sturdy,  splendid  folk  these  mountain  peo 
ple  are,  straight  backed,  inclined  to  be  taller  than 
the  lowlanders,  alert  and  industrious. 

In  a  village  across  the  deep  gorge  of  the  river, 
Abu  AH,  there  lives  in  the  summertime,  Shamuny, 
the  dove-eyed,  the  peerless  washerwoman  for  the 
mission.  In  this  high  altitude  voices  carry  far,  and 
when  we  were  quite  opposite  the  village,  one  of  the 
muleteers  called,  "Ya-a-a-a-a  Shamuny.  Ya-a-a-a-a 
Shamuny.  Bring  eggs  and  milk  and  chickens  to  the 
cedars  of  the  Lord  to-morrow  morning."  From 
away  across  the  deep  valley  we  heard,  Aye,  aye, 
sama'ah.  "Yes,  yes,  I  hear."  We  could  see  her  also 
standing  in  her  doorway  waving  something  white 
in  her  hand.  Sure  enough  she  was  here  this  morn 
ing  with  supplies  before  any  of  us  had  crawled  out 
of  our  tents. 

We  passed  through  towns  and  villages,  some  size 
able  with  brave  new  tile-roofed  houses,  evidences  of 
hard-earned  money  over  in  America  or  Australia 
or  Brazil,  and  everywhere  and  always  we  found 
kindly  interest  and  courteous  salutation. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     155 

After  leaving  the  last  town,  Besherreh,  the  climb 
up  was  stiff  over  a  winding,  curving  bridlepath. 
Once  we  rode  through  white  sea  sand  and  beside 
water-worn  rocks.  I  would  like  to  invite  the  un 
believers  in  the  deluge  to  explain  how  that  sand 
thrown  up  by  some  sea  or  other  got  at  that  eleva 
tion,  for  if  they  can,  I'll  too,  refuse  to  believe  that 
"Noah  he  did  build  an  ark." 

It  is  not  necessary  to  tell  about  this  clump  of 
trees.  You  can  read  all  about  it  in  books,  how  many 
there  are,  etc.  But  what  I  would  like  to  have  you 
see,  mother,  dear,  is  the  way  the  big  lordly  things 
rear  themselves,  and  how  they  spread  their  branches, 
as  though  inviting  us  mortals  to  lie  at  ease  on  their 
thick,  springy  greenness  and  there  rest  awhile  and 
get  acquainted  with  the  cloud-dotted  sky  and  its 
Maker. 

I  wish,  too,  I  could  make  a  record  of  the  sigh 
of  the  wind  and  the  whisper  of  the  breeze  passing 
from  tree  to  tree  for  you,  that  your  Victor  machine 
might  repeat  it  in  your  ears. 

As  night  deepened,  although  weary,  we  could  not 
forbear  to  heed  the  word  of  those  of  our  party  who 
knew,  to  wait  up  for  the  moon  which  "rules  by 
night."  It  was  cold — we  are  at  an  elevation  of  some 
6000  feet  and  more — and  warmly  wrapped  up  we 
waited  and  watched.  I  have  never  seen  such  star 
light  as  glinted  and  sparkled  through  the  black 
cedar  branches,  and  when  the  great  white  disk  of 
the  moon  slowly  shouldered  itself  above  the  encir- 


156     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

cling  Ras  el  Qadib,  it  was  as  though  the  mountain 
receded  and  gave  way  to  the  resplendent  Queen  of 
Night,  that  she  might  fling  afar  her  robes  of  trail 
ing  light. 

Absorbed,  we  watched  and  silently  adored.  Then 
a  voice  broke  the  stillness,  "The  heavens  declare  the 
glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth  his  handi 
work,"  softly  spoken,  in  which  we  all  joined  as  we 
looked  and  worshipped  in  the  words  of  the  old 
Psalmist,  clear  through  to  the  end.  One  thing  you 
did  well  with  me,  mother  dearest,  you  made  me 
when  a  child,  commit  to  memory  wonderful  portions 
of  scripture.  I  rejoiced  last  night  that  I  could  meas 
ure  up  to  something  with  these  wonderful  Bible 
students,  even  though  it  were  only  to  repeat  a  Psalm. 

Oh,  yes,  the  party  is  charming.  Everybody  is  nice 
and  agreeable,  but — these  trees  with  their  whisper 
ings  and  sighs,  bidding  us  remember  the  ages  and 
centuries  they  have  been  here,  while  kingdoms  have 
risen  and  fallen,  and  nations  and  races  played  their 
parts  in  the  Drama  of  Man  to  their  final  exit;  the 
sky  and  clouds  and  mountains  with  shepherds  and 
cropping  sheep,  these  are  the  things  we  have  come 
to  see.  I  could  wish  to  be  here  alone  with  God 
and  this  wondrous,  majestic  beauty  He  has  created. 

One  of  the  trees  is  immense.  It  took  eight  of  us 
to  gird  it,  the  tips  of  our  fingers  touching  only, 
our  arms  stretched  to  the  limit.  The  Old  Guardian 
some  one  dubbed  it,  because  it  has  been  here  since 
the  days  when  Hiram  of  Tyre's  workmen  cut  down 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     157 

its  companions  for  Solomon's  Temple.  It  was  left 
behind  for  some  reason,  and  has  withstood  tempest 
and  cold  and  summer  heat  to  shelter  us  of  the  Twen 
tieth  Century,  from  a  little-dreamed-of  land  and 
speaking  a  language  which  was  not  formed  on  the 
tongue  of  man  until  it  was  some  two  thousand  years 
old.  Its  branches  grow  quite  low,  and  I  have  scram 
bled  up  into  its  capacious  lap  with  a  book,  my 
bound  in  Russia  one,  only  my  attention  will  wander 
to  the  cushions  of  green  on  the  boughs,  and  I  long 
to  pillow  my  head  on  them  and  be  swayed  by  the 
breeze,  then  off  to  a  great  field  go  my  eyes  where 
had  been  wheat,  but  now  golden  stubble,  above 
which  an  eagle  soared  but  now,  with  scarcely  a 
movement  of  his  wide-spread  wings, — away  up  into 
the  blue  he  headed  until  he  became  a  greyish  speck 
against  the  sky. 

The  tinkle  of  a  bell  on  a  browsing  black  and  white 
goat  comes  to  my  ears  and  the  call  of  a  strayed 
lamb  to  its  ewe  from  across  the  wady.  What  peace, 
what  holy  calm,  what  surcease  for  tired  bodies  and 
brains ! 

Off  to  the  south  I  see  the  cleft  in  the  globe  made 
by  the  erosion  of  the  river  as  it  ate  its  way  to  the 
sea.  I  can  trace  its  whole  length  as  though  made 
in  a  clay  map  by  a  human  hand. 

There  are  other  people  here,  besides  ourselves, 
I  have  discovered.  Up  on  the  crest  of  one  of  several 
small  hills  in  the  Cedar  enclosure  is  a  tiny  chapel, 
sacred  and  dear  to  the  people.  When  I  wandered 


158     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

off  by  myself  this  morning,  I  came  upon  a  couple 
of  women  laboriously  climbing  the  slope  to  it  on 
hands  and  knees,  because  being  childless,  they  had 
heard  some  one  say  God  would  respect  their  desire 
for  motherhood  if  they  went  to  church  that  way. 
Their  faith  was  sublime,  and  let  us  hope  some  day 
they  will  become  joyful  mothers  of  children. 

Another  Day. 

Of  all  my  experiences  in  this  land  of  wonder 
and  delight,  the  one  I  am  now  enjoying  is  quite  the 
best.  We  seem  to  have  found  ourselves  in  a  place 
much  like  the  one  the  Master  invited  His  disciples 
to,  "the  place  apart."  The  great  throbbing  world 
has  slipped  away,  quite  out  of  sight,  and  we  are  face 
to  face  with  nature  and  primitive  life,  where  the 
trees  and  mountains  become  so  intimate  that  you 
learn  their  language  of  lights  and  shadows  and 
serenity,  and  forget  to  be  tired  or  that  down  be 
low  in  the  lowlands  is  hurry  and  rush  and  competi 
tion  and  hard  work. 

To-day  we  watched  some  shepherds  "abiding  with 
their  sheep,"  just  outside  the  wall.  One  especially 
interested  us.  He  stood  leaning  on  his  staff,  half 
hidden  in  his  sheep-skin  coat  with  its  huge,  pro 
truding  shoulders,  which  not  only  sheds  rain  like  a 
sloping  roof,  but  is  capacious  enough  to  shelter  a 
new-born  lamb  from  heat  or  cold  or  wet.  This  man 
we  learned  was  on  watch,  while  his  companions 
rested  and  drew  their  evening  meal  of  bread  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     159 

cheese  from  their  "scrips," — the  sheep-skin  bag  they 
all  carry. 

As  the  shadows  lengthened  the  part  I  most  wanted 
to  see  was  enacted.  There  is  a  circular  enclosure 
near  by,  with  but  one  entrance.  This  is  the  sheep- 
fold,  toward  which  I  noticed  the  sheep  had  turned 
their  faces.  As  they  nosed  and  hunted  for  the  scant 
herbage  among  the  stones  and  rocks,  one  of  the 
shepherds  called.  I  cannot  describe  the  guttural 
sounds  he  uttered — they  were  not  euphonious,  but 
from  among  hundreds  of  sheep  scattered  around  I 
saw  one  and  another  and  another  lift  its  head,  listen 
for  a  repetition  of  the  familiar  voice  saying,  Ta'a, 
ta'a,  "come,  come,"  and  then  start  toward  it.  Only 
those  who  knew  the  voice  responded.  The  rest 
kept  on  eating.  "A  stranger  will  they  not  follow." 
The  called  ones  went  after  their  shepherd,  to  the 
fold,  all  but  one  or  two,  which  a  well-directed  stone 
from  the  shepherd's  hand  admonished  and  they  came 
running.  At  the  door  he  stood — "I  am  the  door  of 
the  sheep,"  and  as  they  passed  in  he  counted  and 
scrutinized  each  one,  touching  them  with  his  staff 
as  they  crossed  the  threshold.  I  saw  him  hold  back 
a  ewe  whose  face  was  bleeding  from  contact  with 
thorns,  to  be  tenderly  washed  and  oiled  later  on. 
Once  we  heard  two  shepherds  call  their  flocks  alter 
nately,  and  it  was  a  pretty  sight,  those  sheep  sepa 
rating  themselves  to  collect  around  the  voice  which 
they  knew  and  followed  into  the  fold. 

Next  we  saw  a  goatherd  coming  over  the  brow 


160     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

of  the  hill,  driving  before  him  his  black  charges. 
Did  you  know  that  sheep  follow  a  leader,  but  that 
goats  must  be  driven  ?  They,  too,  passed  under  the 
rod  into  the  fold,  each  one  carefully  looked  at  and 
most  of  them  called  by  name.  We  asked  a  shepherd 
to  tell  us  the  names  of  some  of  his  flock,  and  here  they 
are:  Meliky,  the  Queen,  was  pointed  out,  because 
she  likes  to  walk  right  at  the  head  of  the  flock; 
One-eyed,  which  would  jump  down  a  slope  and  fell 
on  a  cruel  thorn  and  lost  an  eye;  The  Wanderer, 
addicted  to  straying  away  out  of  sound  of  the  shep 
herd's  voice ;  the  Lost  One,  which  cost  the  shepherd 
many  anxious  hours  hunting  among  the  rocks  and 
wadys  until  at  last  he  found  "the  sheep  that  was 
lost,"  on  a  ledge  it  had  climbed  to  seeking  a  bit  of 
grass,  and  was  caught  fast  by  a  low-growing  thorn 
tree.  Others  were,  Black  face,  and  Brown  ear,  and 
Torn  tail,  Shaitan  (Satan),  the  great  ram  which 
keeps  the  flock  in  order,  and  the  Orphan,  the  best 
beloved,  whose  mother  died  when  she  was  born. 

Do  you  see,  mother  dearest,  what  the  "comfort 
of  the  staff"  means?  Care,  protection,  safe  resting 
places,  and  sleepless,  tireless  love. 

The  sun  sank  into  the  distant  sea  ere  the  last 
sheep  was  safely  folded,  and  the  door  secured 
against  intruders.  Not  alone  by  the  curious  lock 
with  a  wooden  key  was  that  accomplished,  but  one 
of  the  shepherds  covered  with  his  burnus  laid  him 
self  on  his  sheep-skin  cloak,  squarely  in  front  of  the 
fab, — "door,"  to  sleep  a  little,  and  watch  the  more. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     161 

No  one  might  go  in  or  out  excepting  over  his  body. 
I  will  lay  me  down  now  and  sleep,  and  when  my 
candle  is  out,  I  shall  say  alone  in  the  dark  the  old 
Psalm,  "The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,"  and  I  shall  put 
the  emphasis  on  my. 

Night  Time,  after  Another  Wonder  Day. 

To-day  we  took  a  long  walk,  and  a  rough  one  it 
was  across  the  wheat  field  of  the  soaring  eagle, 
till  we  came  to  the  edge  of  the  world,  where  if  we 
had  taken  one  more  step  we  would  have  walked 
off  into  space.  We  started  out  to  find  where  the 
old  Kadisha  River  came  from,  tumbling  and  jump 
ing  from  somewhere  in  the  mountain.  We  had  a 
merry  time  scrambling  down  the  winding  goat  paths 
to  the  source,  some  hundreds  of  feet  below,  where 
was  an  opening  in  the  side  of  the  great,  rock-bound 
mountain,  as  large  as  a  good-sized  room.  Out  of 
this  cavern  the  ice-cold  torrent  rushed  noiselessly 
and  swiftly,  as  if  to  try  its  strength  now  it  had 
emerged  into  the  open.  Then  it  got  in  such  a  hurry 
that  it  had  no  time  to  dodge  around  the  rocks  in 
its  way,  but  gathered  itself  and  took  a  mighty  leap 
down  to  a  lower  level,  roaring  and  kicking  back  its 
spume  and  spray  in  happy  defiance. 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  work  for  the  sons  of  men," 
it  called  back,  but  never  stayed  its  forward  rush, 
leaping  from  the  heights,  often  hanging  up  delicate, 
fairy  rainbows  as  parting  gifts,  keeping  steadily  on, 
fretting  against  the  rocky  sides  of  the  seons-old  road 


162     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

its  predecessors  had  carved,  ever  hurrying,  running, 
dashing  along,  giving  of  its  fullness  to  the  jells 
near  by,  planted  with  vegetables,  until  it  reached  the 
plains  where  men  toiled  for  the  harvests  of  grain 
and  fruits. 

I  can  see  the  eager,  watching,  waiting,  expectant 
gardens  of  orange  and  apricot,  parched  and  thirsty 
in  the  rainless  summer,  hear  the  plash  of  the  bare- 
kneed  toiler  as  he  opens  sluices  and  directs  the  re 
freshing  draught  of  water  against  the  hot  soil  which 
drinks  deep  and  passes  on  the  life-giving  fluid. 
It  truly  is  the  "water  of  life,"  as  we  used  to  sing. 
How  cold  it  is,  too !  We  put  a  melon  in  it,  only 
to  see  after  a  while  that  it  had  split  in  twain.  From 
the  "roots  of  the  mountains"  it  comes,  where  is  that 
limitless,  God-stored  supply,  "pure  as  crystal." 

Absorbed  in  the  majesty  of  the  scene,  I  drew 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink,  to  trace  the  entire 
length  of  this  wonder  river,  so  close  that  I  felt 
restraining  hands  drawing  me  back  to  safety,  some 
one  fearing  lest  the  absorption  become  fascination 
and  I  follow  the  flow  to  the  depths  below. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Whitelaw,"  I  said,  at  last  turn 
ing  my  eyes  from  the  ravishing  view. 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  I?"  he  enquired,  still 
keeping  hold  of  me. 

"How?  You  are  always  near  when  I  need — 
help,"  I  told  him,  looking  up  at  him,  and  got  one 
of  those  hidden  smiles,  I  have  somehow  missed, 
because  absent  for  so  long.  But  this  is  one  of  the 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      163 

very  few  times  I  have  really  seen  him  since  that 

day  when I  wonder  if  he  has  forgotten  when 

he  offered  me  a  gift,  of  which  he  has  never  spoken 
since.  But  that  smile  to-day — but,  we  turned  and 
joined  the  others  who  were  making  merry  over  the 
lunch  of  cucumbers  and  sajh  bread. 

When  we  were  about  to  return  to  the  camp,  and 
stood  near  the  edge  of  the  world  again,  some  one 
began  "Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth 
or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world, 
even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  thou  art  God." 
I  felt  as  I  listened  that  I  was  getting  acquainted 
with  God  up  here,  and  that  there  were  no  words 
of  my  own  to  employ.  Nothing  seems  to  fit  but 
those  from  the  old  Book. 

And  how  small  have  been  our  aims  and  desires. 
The  trees  are  good  correctives,  thrusting  themselves 
up,  up  as  though  to  measure  themselves  against  the 
everlasting  mountain  which  reaches  higher  still 
towards  the  sky,  some  four  thousand  feet  and  more. 

And  now  the  river  has  spoken.  This  laughing, 
joyful  river  hastening  down  to  brighten  folks  and 
flowers  and  fruits  alike,  is  another  proof  of  how  we 
are  all  children  of  the  Great  I  Am,  who  made  us 
and  it  and  the  mountains  with  its  trees  and  silences 
and  flocks  and  herds,  and  who  expects  us  to  co 
ordinate  all  our  doings  of  help  and  inspiration,  that 
we  may  apprehend  the  reason  of  existence,  and  be 
apprehended  of  God  in  the  final  analysis. 

I  am  getting  glimmerings  of  great  life  truths, 


164     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

which  my  college  course,  travels  and  books  have  not 
furnished  me.  There  is  an  Arab  proverb  which 
sums  it  up.  "The  people  of  this  world  are  as  pas 
sengers  on  a  ship.  It  moves  on  with  them  while 
they  sleep."  I  think  I  have  slept  most  of  my  life, 
but  I  am  grateful  that  the  Captain  did  not  put  me 
off  at  some  port,  but  has  kept  me  on  board  knowing 
that  I  would  waken.  I  am  beginning  to  arouse 
and  observe  that  I  have  left  much  of  the  familiar 
far  behind ;  that  I  have  moved  on  to  strange  delight 
some  places,  where  the  air  is  invigorating,  the  im 
pulse  to  be  compelling,  and  great  souls  smile  at 
me  and  hold  out  welcoming  hands,  and  I  am  glad, 
and  am  trying  to  respond  and  fit  myself  to  company 
them  that  I  may  attain  to  this  fellowship.  I  am  glad 
and  thankful  I  am  no  longer  a  drone.  My  entrance 
into  a  tiny  portion  of  real  constructive  work  was 
tragic — but  I  am  in.  And  that  picket  fence  and 
what  it  encloses  will  look  very  dear  when  I  get 
there  two  days  from  now. 

To-morrow  we  go,  and  again  I  am  glad  and  heart 
happy.  I  want  to  get  back  and  bind  up  Nebeeha's 
sore  finger  and  kiss  away  the  tears  when  it  hurts 
too  much,  and  sit  down  on  the  floor  with  wee  Zehra 
and  build  a  great  city  for  her  out  of  her  blocks, 
wherein  shall  enter  nothing  to  hurt  or  make  her 
afraid.  I  must  hurry,  hurry,  and  get  at  my  task. 
They  will  all  be  grown  up  before  I  know  it,  those 
children  of  mine. 


Said  Luqman  the  Sage:  Let  thy  first 

attainment  be  the  getting  of  a  good 
friend.  For  a  good  friend  is  like  unto 
a  palm  tree.  It  giveth  thee  shade  when 
thou  sittest,  wood  when  thou  gatherest 
and  fruit  delicious  for  thy  food. — Arab 
Proverb. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

Saturday  Afternoon. 

You  have  asked  in  several  of  your  letters  about 
Beyrout,  what  it  is  like,  and  if  I  never  go  there 
because  no  mention  of  it  is  in  my  letters.  It  is 
not  that  I  have  not  been  there,  nor  that  it  is  not 
interesting,  but  it  is  so  modern  in  many  ways,  and 
I  have  tried  to  tell  you  about  things  opposite  of 
new.  Still,  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  little  of  interest 
in  it,  as  is  the  case  in  all  large  cities. 

Before  coming  to  live  here,  I  had  not  been  in 
Beyrout  excepting  when  Betty  and  I  ran  down  in 
the  car  once  or  twice  for  shopping.  We  only  spent 
one  night  there,  and  that  at  that  very  good  Hotel 
where  I  had  breakfast  when  I  arrived  from 
America.  And  that  one  night  was  occasioned  by 
unfinished  dentistry  Betty  had  to  wait  over  to  have 
completed.  So  you  see,  I  am  not  very  competent 
to  tell  you  much  about  it,  although  I  go  there  fre 
quently  now,  because  I  am  near  and  all  supplies 
must  come  from  there. 

But  for  picturesqueness  and  colour  it  cannot  com 
pare  with  Trablus,  excepting  in  spots.  Its  situation 
is  magnificent  on  St.  George's  Bay,  which  name 

167 


168     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

commemorates  the  spot  where  the  dragon  sported 
and  St.  George  (el  Khudr,  the  "Green  One"  to  the 
Moslems),  for  ever  ended  his  reign  of  terror. 
Curiously  enough  el  Khudr  is  venerated  alike  by 
Christian  and  Moslem.  The  former  name  their 
churches  and  children  for  him,  and  the  latter  build 
shrines  to  his  memory  and  therein  consecrate  their 
newly-born — a  ceremony  analogous  to  christening. 
There  is  a  Khudr  not  far  from  my  house  in  J. 

If  one  arrives  in  Beyrout  either  by  steamer  or  in 
the  little  baby  Lebanon  Tramway  train,  the  terminus 
is  the  same,  down  by  the  water  front.  And  one 
gets  the  impression  of  arriving  in  a  metropolis.  The 
cabbie,  looking  for  a  fare,  races  his  horses  beside 
the  moving  train,  gesticulating  to  you  at  the  car 
window,  flashing  a  grateful  smile  when  he  gets 
your  signal  to  wait  at  the  station,  if  he  arrives 
before  the  slowing  train.  And  when  the  wheels 
cease  to  turn,  you  find  yourself  in  a  pandemonium 
indeed.  Clamorous  are  the  cabmen,  insistent,  the 
sakis  clapping  their  brass  bowls  together  to  attract 
attention  and  crying  Ya  atshan,  ya  atshan,  "Ho, 
thirsty  one."  The  ca'ak  b'simsum  man  not  to  be 
outdone,  calls,  Ya  sukhn,  ya  sukhn,  "Oh  hot,  oh 
hot,"  his  wooden  tray  balanced  on  his  head  and  his 
koursee  hanging  from  his  arm  to  place  it  on  if  you 
show  the  slightest  desire  to  taste  his  delicious,  crisp, 
crescent-shaped  sesame  seed-coated  cakes,  and  you 
will  very  much  desire  so  to  do  if  you  have  once 
eaten  any.  These  are  cited  as  examples  of  noises. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     169 

Then  swarms  of  porters,  sweating,  swearing,  loud- 
voiced,  clamorous  and  grabbing  descend  upon  your 
bag,  each  one  insisting  you  have  always  employed 
him,  and  threaten  to  dismember  it  in  the  struggle 
for  possession.  Once  your  carriage  moves  on  with 
you,  you  begin  to  feel  the  colouring  of  the  red  tar- 
boushes  (fezes),  blue  trousers  and  white  turbans 
of  the  slow-moving  throngs  in  the  roadways,  or  on 
the  seemingly  endless  hotel  balconies  facing  the  sea. 
Occasionally  it  is  a  pink  or  red  house  which  catches 
your  eye,  but  generally  bright,  vivid  blue  predomi 
nates.  You  pass  a  large  Austrian  wholesale  house, 
wherein  one  may  purchase  almost  anything  from 
Manchester  muslins  and  French  brie  a  brae  to 
American  Go  On  Shoes. 

Next  we  notice  the  Banks,  Salonika,  Deutscher 
Palestina,  and  Imperial  Ottoman,  and  the  various 
Post  Offices  of  the  European  Powers.  Your  car 
riage  dodges  the  Belgian  tram  line  as  it  passes  the 
shop  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society  to 
turn  a  sharp  corner,  but  not  before  you  obtain  a 
glimpse  of  French  Modistes,  bon  bon  and  cleaning 
establishments.  Down  a  street  lined  with  workers 
in  wood  your  driver  takes  you,  past  a  cafe  or  two, 
coming  up  against  our  old  friends  Thos.  Cook  & 
Sons,  just  as  you  turn  up  a  bit  of  steep  street  and 
stop  before  the  Hotel.  Here  you  traverse  a  long 
veranda  with  tables  and  chairs  suggestive  of  out-of- 
doors  dining,  then  through  a  marble-paved  entrance 
hall  and  up  the  steepest  stairs  you  ever  essayed,  to 


170     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

a  cool,  clean  room  wherein  is  rest  and  quiet.  This 
is  going  to  Beyrout  and  getting  there  as  well. 

There  is  much  of  interest  in  this  big  town  fast 
becoming  Europeanized,  where  are  men  and  women 
a-plenty  who  wear  fashionable  clothing.  There  are 
splendid  houses — one  or  two  might  be  termed  pal 
aces,  surrounded  by  high,  protecting  walls  which 
conceal  gardens  of  rare  beauty,  as  a  glimpse  through 
an  open  gateway  reveals.  The  great  American  Col 
lege  is  the  most  conspicuous  group  of  buildings  in 
the  Levant,  and  made  my  heart  swell  with  pride 
the  first  time  I  stood  on  the  campus  and  saw  nearly 
a  thousand  students  pass  into  the  Chapel,  with  its 
rose  windows,  pipe  organ  and  Georgia  pine  flooring. 
The  faculty  in  cap  and  gown  on  the  rostrum,  the 
hymns,  scriptures  and  prayers  in  English,  might 
have  caused  me  to  think  I  was  in  America,  had 
I  been  able  to  forget  that  the  students  wore  tar- 
bushes  on  their  head,  which  neither  place  nor  prayer 
sufficed  to  remove.  It  was  not  irreverence  which 
kept  them  at  the  proper  angle  on  the  rows  and  rows 
of  dark  heads  before  me,  but  custom,  which  is  all 
supreme  out  here. 

If  I  were  a  student  in  that  institution,  I  think  I 
would  almost  worship  the  people  who  made  it  pos 
sible  for  me  to  get  a  college  education  in  the  arts 
and  sciences,  or  medicine,  or  pharmacy,  or  dentistry, 
or  commerce,  or  education,  or  how  to  be  a  trained 
nurse,  and  all  this  through  the  medium  of  the 
English  language. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     171 

Now  you  have  had  a  glimpse  of  the  college — 
it  would  take  all  of  our  time  to  really  see  it — there 
are  some  twenty-five  buildings  standing  in  a  campus 
of  fifty  acres ;  we  will  go  on  down  the  splendid  wide 
boulevard  leading  past  the  lighthouse  to  the  sea, 
following  the  shore  to  a  waiting  rowboat  in  which 
we  will  explore  the  Pigeon  Islands,  two  tall  pin 
nacles  of  rock,  with  crimson  caps  of  wild  flowers 
in  the  winter  and  spring,  passing  through  mysterious 
entrances  in  their  hearts  of  stone,  through  corridors 
and  tunnels  and  in  and  out  of  caves  and  water-eaten 
passages. 

Under,  a  long  way  under  the  shore  of  the  main 
land  there  is  a  cave,  into  which  the  storm-whipped 
sea  sends  thundrous  billows,  mighty  and  terrible, 
which  eat  in  farther  and  farther,  making  in  calm 
weather  a  sure  covert  for  contraband  traffic  after 
nightfall  when  many  a  kantar  of  salt  and  tobacco 
and  cases  of  firearms  change  hands,  and  are  spirited 
away  before  the  dawn. 

Going  back  we  will  drive  along  the  north  shore, 
we  have  been  out  to  the  west  and  south,  and  when 
we  reach  the  heart  of  the  old  city,  we  will  leave  the 
carriage  to  walk  through  the  winding  bazaars  where 
diminutive  dikakeen  are  filled  with  merchandise 
from  every  corner  of  the  globe,  Singer  Sewing  Ma 
chines  and  Milwaukee  beer  included! 

The  foreign  community,  too,  is  large  and  attrac 
tive,  absorbing  too  much  time,  I  always  feel  if  one 
is  engaged  in  serious  work.  There  are  wonderful 


172     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

compatriots  of  ours  at  work  there — men  and  women 
of  fine  culture  and  attainments.  Just  the  same  kind 
as  those  marvels  in  Trablus.  I  enjoy  meeting  them 
and  knowing  them,  and  am  amazed  at  all  they  are 
accomplishing,  and  sometimes  feel  faintly  envious 
because  they  have  concerts  and  afternoon  teas  and 
lectures  and  meet  the  great  ones  of  earth  passing 
that  way, — but  I  am  always  glad  to  get  back  to  my 
niche,  where  are  motherless  little  children  who  are 
mine,  and  my  opportunity. 

Days  and  as  in  this  case  weeks  go  by  without  an 
entry  in  this  book  of  my  Syrian  life.  I  imagined 
that  after  my  first  year  here  I  would  have  more 
leisure,  but  the  more  I  know  of  the  language,  the 
more  do  I  find  to  do.  Sometimes  I  am  so  tired  at 
night,  that  I  can  only  slip  between  the  sheets,  telling 
my  Father  in  heaven  that  He  knows  all  about  it,  and 
that  I  must  sleep  or  die.  Your  calendar  tells  you 
that  the  spring  time  has  come  and  gone  and  that 
summer  is  here,  my  third  summer  away  from  you. 
I  ought  to  be  planning  to  come  home,  but  what  about 
these  children  and  Kate's  confidence  in  her  friend? 
I  must  wait  and  watch  for  the  turn  in  the  road 
which  will  lead  back  to  you,  darling  mother.  Don't 
pity  me,  please,  and  say  about  me,  "Poor  Rachel." 
I  am  richer  than  any  thing  in  the  love  of  my  chil 
dren,  and  the  opportunities  for  helping  them  I  am 
utterly  unable  to  take  advantage  of,  because  there 
are  not  enough  hours  in  the  days.  No,  I  am  happy. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     173 

happier  than  I  have  ever  been.  Perhaps  I  have 
found  my  real  life  place.  Do  you  suppose  I  have? 
And  if  I  have,  when  are  you  coming  to  share  it 
with  me?  I  want  you  so  "hard"  as  Caryl  says. 

One  Day. 

I  have  been  feeling  that  this  particular  portion  of 
the  globe  is  older  than  the  rest,  especially  than 
America.  It  may  be  because  the  story  of  the  begin 
nings  of  the  human  race  has  been  staged  in  Genesis 
and  on  Babylonian  tablets.  Sometimes  I  imagine 
those  prehistoric  fragments  of  pottery  of  Kate's  and 
C.  D.'s  are  whole  again  in  the  hands  of  those  first 
men  and  women  who  lived  and  played  their  parts  in 
the  great  race  drama,  only  to  have  the  curtain  rung 
down,  that  the  stage  be  set  for  their  successors. 
Once  last  winter,  when  we  had  a  terrifying  thunder 
storm,  I  wondered  if  those  first  folk  would  not 
have  been  seeking  some  cave,  perhaps  the  very  one 
I  sometimes  go  to  out  by  the  sea,  to  hide  in,  afraid 
as  I  was  when  the  crashes  of  thunder  seemed  to 
split  the  sky.  That  day  it  did  seem  as  though  it 
were  the  voice  of  the  Most  High,  especially  when 
one  awful  crash  came,  throwing  Miss  Dear  violently 
across  the  room.  She  was  not  harmed,  other  than 
being  terribly  frightened  and  upset.  But  our  neigh 
bour's  house,  Mejd  ed  Din  Effendeh's,  was  struck, 
the  bolt  tearing  an  irregular  jagged  hole  clear  down 
one  side  of  the  tile  roof. 

I  sent  right  over  to  offer  assistance,  but  found  no 


174     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

one  at  home.  That  evening  the  Effendeh  appeared 
at  our  mid-week  service,  and  asked  that  public 
thanks  be  given  to  Allah  that  no  one  of  his  family 
was  harmed.  He  is  a  Mohammedan. 

A  Fresh  Entry. 

I  know  something  new,  mother  dear.  I  know 
what  a  "fatted  calf"  is,  only  it  is  not  a  calf,  but  a 
sheep  nowadays,  hand  reared  from  a  little  lamb, 
and  made  quite  a  member  of  the  family.  Each  day 
it  is  given  a  bath,  many  times  a  day  all  it  can  eat 
of  wayside  gleamings  and  mulberry  leaves,  until  the 
autumn  when  the  stuffing  process  begins. 

A  woman  will  sit  beside  the  creature  on  the 
mustaby,  "door  place,"  morning,  noon  and  night, 
and  stuff  leaves  and  herbage  into  its  mouth,  holding 
the  jaws  somehow  and  assisting  it  to  work  them  if 
necessary.  Sometimes  these  sheep  get  so  fat,  it  does 
not  seem  possible  for  them  to  walk.  And  I  have 
told  you  of  their  broad,  fat  tails  ?  great  excrescences 
where  the  tail  should  be,  of  nothing  but  pure  fat, 
which  is  greatly  prized  in  cooking. 

July  2Qth. 

This  day  has  an  entry  duly  dated,  for  reasons 
which  will  be  disclosed  as  you  read.  I  received  a 
letter  yesterday.  Will  you  listen  to  it  and  to  my 
tale  of  what  came  after  ? 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     175 

Rachel: 

I  find  in  the  record  I  keep  of  daily  events, 
that  it  is  just  two  years  to-morrow  since  you 
were  taken  from  this  office  down  here  by  the 
sea  (I  am  writing  now  at  your  desk),  and 
placed  in  charge  of  a  work  not  of  your  choos 
ing.  Dare  we  say,  God  was  not  in  it?  I  am 
asking  myself  that  question,  for  the  fact  re 
mains  that  He  seems  to  have  taken  you  for 
this  long  time  quite  beyond  my  ken,  quite  out 
of  reach.  And  I  had  wanted  you  closer,  not 
farther  away.  Had  did  I  say?  That  is  not 
true,  is  it? 

I  know  there  is  a  very  slight  bond,  Miss 
Morgan's  request  that  I  be  one  of  your  advisers, 
when  I  desired  to  serve  you  in  a  more  intimate 
capacity  for  the  rest  of  your  life.  Notwith 
standing  the  official  relationship,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  see  you  often;  there  is  a  Syrian 
Mrs.  Grundy  to  be  taken  into  consideration, 
and  I  have  not  known  whether  had  there  been 
no  conventions  to  be  observed,  you  would  have 
cared  to  have  me  come. 

And  now  my  work  here  is  finished,  and  T  am 
facing  the  west  again.  I  have  not  found  the 
bi-lingual  inscription.  Failure  is  it?  At  any 
rate  the  search  is  to  be  suspended  for  the 
present.  But  over  there  in  England  is  the  old 
home.  I  was  the  eldest  son.  The  others  are 
all  gone.  The  old  Manor  House  stands  amid 


176     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

its  lawns  and  trees  and  smiling  gardens.  My 
ancestors  lived  there  and  the  churchyard  re 
cords  where  they  lie.  In  this  eastern  land,  bar 
ren  and  thirsty,  I  have  remembered  with  great 
longing  at  times,  those  green  fields  and  leafy 
woods,  beautiful  and  beneficent,  when  my  soul 
even  seemed  parched  and  dry.  And  there  is 
an  abundance  in  storehouse  and  Bank. 

And  yet  I  am  not  content.  I  want  just  one 
other  thing.  Can  you  imagine  what?  Have 
you  ever  looked  at  or  tried  to  see  my  point  of 
view?  You  said  you  "did  not  feel  a  particle  of 
love"  for  me  then.  And  you  have  had  too 
much  to  think  about  and  learn  since  that  unfor 
gettable  day,  for  me  to  intrude  my  affairs  upon 
you  that  I  might  try  and  induce  you  to  change 
your  mind.  My  desires  had  to  be  put  one  side 
temporarily,  but  not  forever.  I  assure  you, 
although  I  have  been  impatient,  my  heart  has 
not  fainted  from  defeat.  I  startled  you  that 
day.  Perhaps  I  was  too  abrupt,  and  looked 
only  at  my  side  and  my  great  love  for  you. 

I  would  like  to  see  you  before  I  go, — the 
steamer  sails  on  Monday,  and  this  is  Wednes 
day.  Have  I  your  permission  to  come  and  say 
good-bye?  Be  kind,  and  fix  the  time.  The 
messenger  who  takes  this  to  you  will  wait  for 
an  answer. 

Yours, 

J.  D.  Whitelaw. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      177 

This  is  the  letter  I  got  by  special  messenger  yes 
terday.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  reading  it  when 
a  telegram  was  brought  me  from  C.  D.  that  read, 
"Going  to  Europe  Monday.  Betty  also ;  am  sending 
the  car  for  you  to  come;  arrange  to  go  with  us, 
David." 

Well!  Two  such  communications  were  breath 
stoppers  and  I  gasped  and  wept  alternately.  The 
bottom  of  things  seemed  falling  out.  There  wasn't 
time  for  preparation,  for  it  was  not  long  ere  Deebna 
was  stopping  before  the  gate.  But  I  took  time  to 
write  a  note.  "Will  it  do  just  as  well  to  say  good 
bye  in  Trablus  as  here?  I  am  coming,  and  when 
you  read  this  I'll  be  there." 

I  did  not  sign  my  name  for  he  would  know  who 
wrote  it.  And  instead  of  that  messenger  plodding 
back  over  the  short  cuts,  walking  all  the  long, 
weary  way,  a  matter  of  at  least  twenty-five  miles, 
we  took  him  in  the  car,  instructed  to  deliver  that 
note  the  first  thing. 

I  am  up  in  my  old  room  at  Betty's  as  I  write, 
trying  to  set  things  in  orderly  array  in  my  mind. 
David  had  a  cable  calling  him  to  a  conference  in 
London,  and  he  thought  Betty  had  better  go  along 
for  a  change.  And  he  wants  me  to  go  with  them. 
Ah,  England  again,  with  the  greenness,  one's  own 
kind  once  more  and  the  blessed  English  language 
spoken  by  every  one  who  calls  and  passes  you  on  the 
streets !  Oh,  how  good  it  would  be.  And  new  hats 
and  up-to-date  gowns ! 


178     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

But  I  am  not  going,  mother  dear.  The  summer 
vacation  is  on  and  Miss  Dear,  who  sadly  needed  a 
good  long  rest,  is  away,  and  there  is  no  one  to 
stay  with  the  children  but  myself.  And  besides,  we 
are  trying  experiments  with  silk  weaving.  We  in 
duced  a  master  weaver  from  Hamath  to  come  and 
start  our  looms,  and  I  am  anxious  to  foster  the 
work.  Then,  too,  we  are  beginning  to  really  teach 
gardening,  and  you  should  see  the  children's  plots 
of  growing  things,  now  that  we  have  an  unlimited 
supply  of  water  since  you  saw  that  we  had  the  oil 
engine  to  irrigate  with  when  the  wind  does  not 
blow.  I  have  offered  a  prize  for  the  finest  egg 
plant  and  peas,  another  for  potted  plants  and  cut 
flowers.  The  flower  and  vegetable  show  is  to  be 
held  late  in  August,  and  I  cannot  desert  that  in 
which  I  have  taken  such  pride  and  worked  so  hard 
to  make  a  success. 

So  you  see,  I  cannot  get  away,  much  as  I  would 
like  to.  C.  D.  and  Betty  will  not  be  gone  but  a 
couple  of  months,  and  I  am  not  worth  much,  if  I 
cannot  endure  being  left  behind  for  that  length  of 
time. 

It  seems  C.  D.  started  off  his  telegram  and  the 
car  to  fetch  me  at  about  the  same  time.  The 
former  only  beat  the  car  by  five  minutes.  I  got 
here  in  time  for  tea  with  Betty,  and  before  C.  D. 
came  from  his  office.  Mr.  Whitelaw  being  a 
Britisher,  never  misses  tea,  and  when  he  strolled 
in,  it  was  funny  the  expression  on  his  face  directly 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      179 

he  saw  me.  He  had  not  yet  received  my  reply  to 
his  note,  and  the  surprise  was  complete.  But  his 
greeting  left  nothing  to  be  desired,  and  that  crinkly 
smile  I  like  so  much,  came  forward  with  the  grasp 
of  his  hands.  Yes,  mother,  he  used  both  of  them 
to  held  one  of  mine.  And — well,  he  seemed  glad  I 
was  there,  and  I'll  confess  to  you  he  looked  manly 
and  good  to  my  eyes.  C.  D.  had  not  told  him  he 
had  sent  for  me,  any  more  than  he  had  told  C.  D. 
of  his  letter  to  me.  I  wonder  why? 

I  must  get  into  bed,  but  I  am  thinking  about  the 
children,  and  if  anyone  has  remembered  that  Temam 
needs  looking  after,  or  will  that  subtle  little  thing 
manage  to  slip  into  bed  before  she  brushes  her 
teeth?  And  wee  Kef  a  had  a  bit  of  cold  and  needs 
a  witch-hazel  nose  wash.  Since  we  began  using 
the  latter  with  the  children,  we  do  not  have  well- 
developed  colds.  But,  I  have  a  battle  royal  some 
times  to  accomplish  it,  and  only  win  out  because 
I  am  bigger  and  stronger.  But  we  conquer  the 
cold,  which  is  the  main  thing. 

And  now  good-night.  Why  does  Mr.  W.  desire 
to  say  a  particular  good-bye,  can  you  tell  me?  I 
found  to-night  that  he  has  very  unruly  eyes.  I 
begged  Betty  to  play  for  us,  I  was  so  music  hungry, 
and  that  man  off  in  a  corner  bothered  me.  I  felt 
his  eyes,  and  every  time  I  looked  his  way,  I  caught 
a  gleam  and  that  hidden  smile.  We  are  going  for 
a  canter  early  in  the  morning  before  breakfast  ere 
it  gets  too  warm. 


180     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 


Friday,  July 

What  do  you  suppose  was  the  first  thing  I  re 
membered  when  I  wakened  this  morning?  Not 
that  I  was  here  in  Trablus  and  in  my  own  room 
from  whose  windows  are  visions  of  glorified  moun 
tains  and  sea,  nor  that  I  was  going  for  a  canter  on 
the  sands  with  Mr.  Whitelaw,  but,  of  those  children 
down  home.  Oh,  mother,  shall  I  confess  it?  It 
is  home,  and  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  the  possi 
bility  of  giving  it  over  to  some  one  else  some  day. 
And  yet,  I  am  not  ready  to  say  I  am  willing  to  be 
called  a  missionary.  I  am  not  good  enough  for 
that.  I  am  only  mothering  some  children  who 
would  be  lonely  and  forsaken  otherwise.  I  love  to 
provide  for  them  and  have  them  taught,  and  watch 
them  grow  and  develop,  but  more  than  all,  to  try 
and  help  them  lay  sure  and  right  foundations  for 
the  future. 

These  first  morning  reflections  did  not  prevent 
me  from  keen  enjoyment  in  the  saddle.  I  rode 
Betty's  horse  which  has  the  appropriate  name  of 
Shaitaneh,  —  she  devil  —  and  she  is  one  at  times. 
This  morning  she  would  hardly  wait  to  be  off,  and 
was  with  difficulty  induced  to  stand  long  enough 
for  me  to  mount,  and  then  away  she  shot  like  a 
bird  awing.  She  is  under  perfect  control,  but 
simply  flies  when  in  the  mood  I  found  her  to-day. 
I  could  hear  the  pound,  pound  of  Mr.  Whitelaw's 
mount  behind  me  at  first,  and  when  Shaitaneh  had 
winded  herself  a  bit,  I  wheeled  about  and  rode  back 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     181 

to  find  my  escort.  And  I  could  not  find  any.  A 
funny  thing  to  lose  an  escort.  He  did  not  mate 
rialize.  I  reined  in  and  waited  for  him  to  appear. 
Finally  when  he  did  not  come,  I  went  back  to 
the  parting  of  the  ways.  I  should  explain,  that 
these  devious  paths  to  the  sea  wind  between 
gardens  separated  from  the  road  and  each  other 
by  high  hedges.  Hence,  if  you  go  the  length  of 
your  horse  down  one  of  them,  you  are  quite  lost 
to  sight.  I  soon  sighted  Mr.  Whitelaw  coming 
around  a  bend  in  the  upper  road  at  a  quick  canter 
and  knew  he  saw  me  by  the  wave  of  his  crop. 
Then  I  wheeled  about  and  was  off  again  the  way  I 
had  come,  Shaitaneh  making  the  dust  fly  as  she 
tore  along.  After  a  bit,  I  saw  her  prick  up  her 
ears  and  give  a  welcoming  whinny,  and  there 
coming  toward  me  was  my  escort,  who  had  found 
a  cross  path  and  thus  won  out  in  the  hide  and  seek 
game. 

"Fine,  wasn't  it?"  he  called. 

"Splendid,  only  you  found  me  too  quickly,"  I 
answered.  "I'll  not  let  you  the  next  time." 

"Perhaps,"  laying  his  hand  on  Shaitaneh's  neck 
to  quiet  her  as  we  rode  side  by  side.  "Only  you 
couldn't  lose  yourself  to  me,  you  know,"  said  with 
much  assurance  I  thought. 

"And  why  not?"  I  asked  simply  to  mark  time, 
and  fend  off  another  remark. 

"I  don't  intend  to  let  you,"  was  the  answer  this 
quiet  man  made  who  had  kept  still,  and  had  never 


182     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

by  so  much  as  a  word  or  look,  referred  to  the 
question  he  asked  me  once,  and  I  had  come  to  feel, 
perhaps,  that  he  had  accepted  as  final,  my  rejection 
of  his  startling  proposal  to  teach  me  the  primer 
of  love. 

We  rode  along  in  silence  for  a  time,  and  after 
an  exhilarating  race  on  the  hard  firm  sands,  we 
drew  rein  beside  some  towering  rocks,  lashed  and 
beaten  by  the  never  quiet  waves. 

Mr.  Whitelaw  secured  his  horse  and  then  came 
to  me. 

"Won't  you  rest  here  a  little?  The  horses  need 
a  breathing  spell,"  holding  out  his  hand  to  assist 
me  to  dismount. 

Oh,  I  knew  what  was  coming,  but  somehow  I 
did  not  want  to  run  away.  Does  it  seem  as  strange 
to  you  as  it  does  to  me,  mother,  that  I  meekly  let 
that  man  lift  me  from  my  saddle  and  finding  a 
seat  for  me  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock,  there 
to  pour  out  the  flood  of  love  and  devotion  he  had 
kept  dammed  up  for  so  long?  That  first  declara 
tion,  was  a  tiny,  trickling  rill  compared  with  the 
torrent  which  carried  away  every  possible  objection 
I  could  conjure  up  or  invent,  even  sweeping  away 
the  moorings  almost  to  my  work. 

I  may  not  tell  you  what  he  said  dearest,  nor 
what  my  answer  was,  only  that  he  penetrated  some 
how  to  a  certain  hidden  place  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
and  found  therein  a  carefully  guarded  secret,  hardly 
known  to  myself,  that  I  did  care. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      183 

"Only  care,  Rachel?  Can't  you  find  that  other 
word  there?" 

"Like,"  I  corrected.  Still  he  was  not  satisfied 
until,  well — I  whispered  it  from  somewhere  in  the 
shelter  of  his  coat  in  the  midst  of  a  long,  smother 
ing,  heavenly  something,  wherein  the  old  world 
spun  away,  and  we  two  were  the  only  units  in  the 
whole  universe  of  God.  Unit,  not  units. 

Have  I  not  used  restraint  to  tell  you  all  this 
wonderful  tale  in  the  orderly  way  you  like?  Only 
one  thing  more  can  I  tell  you  to-night.  Betty  was 
too  busy  packing  to  dress  for  tea  this  afternoon, 
and  when  I  came  down  to  pour  for  Mr.  Whitelaw 
and  myself,  he  was  waiting,  and  I  got  the  kind  of 
greeting  I  hope  he  will  keep  up  the  rest  of  our  lives. 
And  I  got  something  else  too. 

When  he  was  last  in  England  he  had  his  mother's 
ring  reset,  anticipatory  to  to-day,  he  was  so  sure 
about  the  final  outcome,  and  as  he  slipped  it  on 
my  finger  said: 

"Beloved,  my  father  pledged  my  mother  with 
these  jewels  (pearls  and  diamonds,  oh,  so  lovely), 
and  I,  too,  pledge  you  with  the  same,  my  true  and 
faithful  love  and  service  as  long  as  we  both  do 
live."  Then  kneeling  on  one  knee  he  kissed  the 
token  and  the  hand  it  was  on,  as  though  he  were 
a  knight  of  olden  time  and  I  a  princess. 

Wait  till  to-morrow,  dearest  mother.  It  is  too 
much  for  one  day.  If  I  could  have  had  your  arms 
to  fly  to  from  his.  Denny — not  John  nor  Jack  even 


184     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

is  his  intimate  name,  but  just  Denny,  his  mother's 
name  for  him  and  which  he  has  given  to  me, — 
Denny  sent  a  cable  this  morning  to  you.  Are  you 
reading  it  now?  And  what  are  you  saying  and 
thinking?  I — happiness  enfolds  me,  oh  mother, 
mother.  I  did  not  know  this  kind  existed.  The 
story  writers  don't  know  how  to  describe  it.  They 
have  not  even  touched  the  fringes  of  it.  Why  did 
not  you  tell  me  mother  darling,  what  i£  was  like?/-' 

Home  Again. 

Mother  dearest,  I  mean  to  write  something  for 
you  every  day,  now,  but  there  is  so  much  to  arrange 
when  one's  whole  life  plan  has  to  be  changed  and 
made  to  fit  in  with  another,  that  there  seems  to  be 
no  time  for  anything  or  anybody  but  this  man 
whom  in  a  rash  moment  I  promised  to  marry. 

I  told  him  the  morning  before  he  went  away,  that 
I  could  not  marry  him. 

"Yes?  And  why?"  He  did  not  seem  at  all  dis 
turbed  by  my  pronouncement,  but  continued  to 
smile  at  me  and  look  adorable. 

"Really,  I  mean  it — if  you  are  going  to  take  me 
away  from  those  children  down  home.  I  just 
couldn't  go.  It  would  break  my  heart  to  bits  to 
lose  them,"  I  told  him. 

"How  about  losing  me  ?  Would  that  trouble  you 
any?" 

"Some,"  I  admitted  after  sufficient  urging. 

"Only  some?    Not  a  great  deal?" 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      185 

I  had  to  admit — he  is  a  very  persistent  person — 
that  it  would  hurt  a  million  times  more  if  he 
should  slip  out  of  sight,  which  admission  seemed 
to  ease  his  mind  somewhat.  Then  he  proposed  that 
we  have  a  last  ride  together,  and  there  by  our  great, 
overshadowing  rock  by  the  sea,  we  talked  of  many 
things  and  decided  some.  This  much  is  final  how 
ever  we  may  change  other  plans.  The  work  Kate 
placed  in  my  hands  is  not  to  be  relinquished.  And 
not  because  I  hold  this  work  in  trust  for  my  dead 
friend  only.  It  has  become  my  task,  which  not 
even  this  great  wonderful  love  and  companionship 
may  take  out  of  my  hands.  Then,  too,  there  is 
much  of  interest  for  an  archaeologist  in  J.  and 
Denny  has  long  wanted  to  prowl  around  and  see 
what  the  prospects  are  for  regular  excavations  by 
his  society  at  home.  Thank  God  I  do  not  have  to 
choose  between  work  and  him. 

So  that  much  is  easy.  We  will  try  to  secure 
a  strong  force  of  helpers  that  we  may  be  free  to 
come  and  go.  I  had  about  decided  to  build  a  house 
on  the  higher  ground  back  of  the  Orphanage,  for 
my  own  habitation,  or  whoever  might  be  in  charge 
before  Mr.  W.  stepped  in  to  disarrange  things,  and 
you  know  about  the  plans  Matthews  and  Black 
sent  out  for  it.  We  shall  still  carry  out  that  one 
plan  and  have  our  own  house,  to  be  built  after 
Denny  is  here  permanently  to  relieve  me  of  look 
ing  after  its  erection.  I  find  he  has  heaps  of  gold 
and  houses  and  lands  and  is  an  archaeologist  be- 


186     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

cause  he  loves  it,  and  not  because  he  has  to  dig  to 
live. 

Have  you  ever  discovered  that  I  am  queer?  I 
have  had  suspicions  that  such  was  the  case,  and 
now  I  know  it.  And  the  evidence  of  it  is  that 
while  I  hated  to  have  my  man  go  to  England  so 
soon,  I  welcomed  the  opportunity  to  be  alone  with 
my  joy,  that  I  might  get  my  inner  self  in  order, 
and  accustomed  to  this  great  absorbing  thing  we 
call  love.  Almost  every  mail  brings  some  word 
from  him.  He  arrived  at  the  Manor  House  two 
weeks  ago.  Perhaps  I'll  let  you  see  a  letter  I  got 
to-day,  in  which  he  says  he  has  written  you  sug 
gesting  that  you  go  over  and  join  him  there  and 
let  him  escort  you  the  rest  of  the  way  to  Syria. 
A  very  good  arrangement  it  seems  to  me,  arid  I 
hope  you  will  do  so.  How  will  it  seem  to  you  to 
have  a  son,  as  well  as  a  daughter?  And  such  a 
son!  C.  D.  and  Betty  are  enjoying  every  minute 
in  London.  Betty  writes  they  have  been  down  and 
seen  Mr.  Whitelaw,  in  fact,  he  insisted  they  make 
the  Manor  House  their  home  while  in  England. 
Betty  says  it  is  a  place  of  great  charm,  and  that 
she  envies  me  the  privilege  of  having  it  for  my 
home  some  day. 

Here  is  the  letter  I  hinted  I  might  show  you.  It 
is  not  the  regulation  love  epistle  as  you  will  see, 
but  somehow  It  tells  me  in  every  word  of  the  love 
and  devotion  of  the  Dearest  Man. 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     187 

My  Rachel: 

I  wish  you  could  see  it,  this  greenness  and 
freshness  stretching  all  around, — lawns  and 
meadows,  woods  and  gardens  and  country 
quiet  and  peace.  There  are  no  silent-footed 
camels  nor  laden  mules  passing,  each  pace 
marked  by  the  jangle  of  bells.  There  is  no 
glare  of  unclouded  sun  on  grey,  dusty  rocks 
and  parched  wayside  fig  or  mulberry  trees.  It 
is  all  restful  to  eye  and  soul,  and  I  would  that 
I  could  have  you  here  to  bask  in  it  with  me  and 
get  the  refreshment  you  need. 

It  would  be  perfect  to-day  out  under  the 
limes,  where  I  could  watch  you  over  your  tea 
cups  once  more.  For  they  are  yours  because 
mine.  There  is  a  particular  winged  chair,  with 
a  high,  fan-shaped  back,  which  was  my 
mother's,  in  which  you  are  to  sit  and  preside, 
while  I  read  aloud  to  you  after  the  tea  is  over. 
Your  hands  will  be  busy.  Do  you  knit?  I 
hope  you  do,  for  there  is  nothing  quite  so  fit 
ting  for  graceful,  white  hands  like  yours,  as 
shining  needles,  fashioning  some  pretty  thing. 
Oh  yes,  I  do  remember  how  you  used  to  sit 
on  the  other  side  of  the  table  from  me  those 
evenings  in  Trablus,  before  you  went  to  J.  and 
when  David  was  convalescing,  knitting,  while 
we  delved  into  those  well-stocked  book  shelves 
of  his. 

And  how  long  is  it  to  be  before  I  bring  you  to 


188     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

my  home  to  make  it  yours  also?  For  no  mat 
ter  how  much  time  we  spend  in  J.  the  Manor 
House  will  always  remain  open  to  receive  us 
when  we  tire  of  wandering.  And  I  have  a 
presentiment  that  that  will  be  very  often,  don't 
you? 

Oh,  my  Rachel,  I  suppose  it  is  true,  this 
great  happiness,  but  somehow  I  find  it  difficult 
to  make  it  real  after  all.  Don't  you  think 
you  were  a  trifle  cruel?  And  two  whole  years 
never  by  so  much  as  a  look  did  you  hint 
that  you  did  "care, — like."  Think  of  the  ar 
rears  you  will  have  to  pay.  And  have  you 
enough  in  the  Bank  of  Love  saved  up  to  quite 
clear  yourself?  I  warn  you,  you  will  need  a 
large  amount,  and  of  a  particular  coinage. 
Begin  to  pay  in  your  next  letter,  will  you? 
Remember  how  far  you  are  from  me,  and  that 
I  want  you,  want  you,  everlastingly  want  you 
with  me,  always  near  as  long  as  life  shall  last. 

I  am  coming  soon  to  fetch  you.  I  have 
written  your  mother  asking  her  to  join  me 
here  and  we  will  come  on  together.  Then  she 
can  stay  with  your  children,  while  you  and  I 
take  a  journey  together.  Nay,  my  beloved  one, 
begin  that  journey  together  on  the  Long  Road, 
which  please  God,  shall  have  no  turning  to  the 
end  of  Eternity. 

He  who  signs  this  is  all  yours, 

Denny. 


Patience  is  the  key  to  joy. — Arab 
Proverb. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

I  am  finding  it  difficult  to  adjust  present  condi 
tions  to  that  inner  serenity  upon  which  my  heart 
happiness  must  rest.  And  just  as  you  used  to  let 
me  pour  into  your  understanding  ears  my  childish 
perplexities,  so  I  come  now  to  sit  at  your  feet  while 
the  difficulties  come  out  one  by  one  for  solution. 

Kate  placed  a  great  responsibility  in  very  ignor 
ant  hands  when  she  died,  not  only  am  I  untrained, 
but  untested.  I  have  begun  to  see  the  enormity  of 
the  task  I  have  undertaken,  and  although  some 
what  incredulous  still  as  to  the  desirability  of  pre 
senting  new  ideas  colder  and  cruder  to  a  people 
mellowed  and  ripened  in  so  many  ways,  by  an  age 
long  outlook  upon  great  mountains,  vast  plains  and 
this  boundless  sea,  I  have  been  forced  to  see  that 
the  Sons  of  Shem  stand  in  need  of  the  hustling 
ways  of  the  Children  of  Japheth. 

I  see  also  that  I  have  received  much.  Why, 
mother,  my  background  of  educated  ancestors  is 
an  asset  I  had  never  counted  in  until  I  came  out 
here  and  found  that  very  few  know  how  old  they 
are,  and  that  "how  to  open  a  book"  is  not  a  uni 
versal  possession  by  any  means.  I  never  knew 

191 


192     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

before  what  it  meant  to  have  been  born  in  a  land 
of  free  speech  in  the  press  and  on  the  platform.  I 
did  not  realize  there  could  be  a  sharp  limit  to  ways 
by  which  a  woman  might  earn  her  living.  Fancy 
an  American  woman  thrown  upon  her  own  re 
sources  Ending  herself  obliged  to  scrub  or  wash  or 
sew  only.  „  Oh  yes,  I  know  our  women  once  were 
shut  up  to  about  the  same  limited  area  of  occupa 
tions,  but  that  day  has  passed  long  ago.  The  West 
has  moved  on,  while  progress  has  not  yet  started  here 
so  far  as  the  government  is  concerned.  The  women 
who  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  have  had  an 
education  of  sufficient  breadth,  may  be  employed 
as  teachers,  if  their  families  do  not  object,  which 
they  are  apt  to  do  if  they  are  of  the  akabir  "aris 
tocracy." 

The  reason  why  this  country  has  never  risen 
from  its  age-long  desuetude  is,  there  is  no  founda 
tion  upon  which  to  build  a  credible  superstructure 
for  society.  The  western  nations  have  become 
great  and  civilized,  because  they  have  grown  and 
expanded  by  being  mutually  helpful  each  to  the 
other,  I  mean  as  regards  literature,  inventions, 
science,  etc.  Here  colossal  ignorance  on  the  part 
of  the  official  class,  prates  and  preens  itself  at  the 
expense  of  the  development  of  the  empire. 

Here  are  some  examples  of  the  repressive 
measures  which  obtain  here.  Telephones  are  little 
known,  because  some  one  supposed  they  and  dyna 
mite  meant  the  same  destructive  energy.  A  text 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      193 

book  on  chemistry  was  suppressed  because  it  con 
tained  on  every  page  H2O,  which  the  imperial 
censor  interpreted  to  mean  "Abd  ul  Hamid  II  is 
nothing."  One  wonders  if  he  ever  heard  that  the 
Arabs  were  the  first  chemists.  We  get  our  word 
chemistry  from  the  Arabic  alchemy.  These  are 
two  illustrations  among  many  I  have  heard  of  the 
crass  ignorance  in  officialdom. 

I  have  also  learned  that  the  people  have  splendid 
qualities.  That  their  capabilities  are  quite  as  fine 
as  any  western's,  and  I  have  begun  to  ask  myself, 
by  what  right  are  they  to  be  denied  the  same  oppor 
tunity  to  develop  as  is  the  happy  lot  of  every  one 
who  bears  the  proud  name  American? 

If  the  government  only  provided  an  educational 
system,  and  employed  modern  methods  in  govern 
ing:  if  the  industries  were  encouraged  and  devel 
oped,  there  might  be  hope  that  things  would  right 
themselves.  But  when  the  reverse  is  appallingly 
true,  where  is  light  to  come  from,  if  some  one 
from  outside  does  not  appear  bearing  the  "torch 
of  civilization"? 

I  instinctively  have  had  an  antipathy  to  the  word 
"missionary."  But  since  learning  a  little  of  the 
marvellous  Arabic  language,  I  have  discovered  that 
in  the  speech  of  the  people  a  missionary  is  really 
"one  who  is  sent,"  a  moursel.  That  idea  has 
illumined  this  missionary  business.  I  was  not 
"sent"  into  my  work.  I  was  thrust  into  it.  What 
must  one  do  to  be  a  "sent  one,"  I  wonder?  All  of 


194     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

them  out  here,  the  maursaleen,  belong  to  Boards 
and  Societies.  I  with  Kate's  inheritance,  and  my 
patrimony  am  free  to  work  out  my  own  ideas  and 
hers.  Kate  pre-empted  this  little  untilled  corner, 
and  left  it  well  cultivated. 

Mother,  is  there  anything  more  important  I 
could  do  with  my  life,  than  to  take  these  bequeathed 
children,  bereft  of  their  natural  mothers  and  of 
Kate, — twice  bereaved — and  give  them  the  best 
chance  I  know  how?  To  so  fit  them  for  life  that 
I  can  hand  them  the  "torch  of  civilization"  along 
with  the  knowledge  of  the  "Light  of  Life,"  rea 
sonably  sure  it  will  be  passed  on  in  turn  to  others? 
Mother  of  me,  I  need  your  help.  I  need  my  mother 
in  the  midst  of  these  great  questions. 

My  next  perplexity  is, — and  darling,  I  am  turn 
ing  my  heart  inside  out  for  you.  I've  got  to,  it 
aches  so.  What  shall  I  do  about  Denny?  Is  his 
coming  into  my  life  going  make  me  any  little  bit 
less  eager  to  do  this  thing  I  have  undertaken  ?  Am 
I  going  to  be  able  to  do  it  at  all?  I  puzzle  and 
question  and  banish  sleep  from  my  pillow  as  I 
strive  to  solve  the  riddle.  Is  there  such  a  thing  as 
a  double  harness  elastic  enough  for  us  to  pull  to 
gether  in,  when  over  in  England  estates  and  family 
ties  and  traditions  draw  in  that  direction,  while 
here,  and  all  important,  is  a  great  need,  and  wide 
opportunities  wholly  dependent  on  me?  As  for 
Denny's  coming  here  as  an  adjunct  merely,  the 
thought  is  abhorrent.  Our  engagement  was  so  sud- 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      195 

den,  and  the  bliss  of  the  few  days  before  he  went 
away  so  pure  and  blessed,  that  we  only  saw  the 
one  great,  luminous,  primal  fact,  our  mutual  love. 
There  was  no  time  for  adjustment.  But  I  know, 
oh,  I  know,  I  want  to  keep  this  very  precious  thing, 
the  love  of  my  man  Denny,  while  I  fear  lest  we 
allow  our  service  to  become  diluted,  when  it  should 
become  intensified.  I  want  our  marriage  to  be  not 
merely  a  beautiful,  selfish  incident  in  our  lives,  but 
a  step  to  a  higher  plane  of  service.  Will  the  desire 
for  growth  dwindle  if  love  thrives?  Tell  me, 
mother,  you  know.  I  wrote  something  of  this  to 
Denny  a  fortnight  ago.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure, 
he  will  not  misunderstand  my  questions. 

Mother,  he  told  me  during  those  heart  happiness 
days, — less  than  three  they  were, — that  he  had 
watched  me  grow  during  the  time  he  has  known 
me, — the  spiritual  me,  and  he  reproached  me,  but 
very  gently,  for  saying  I  was  not  good  enough  for 
this  work,  nor  to  be  his  wife.  Could  I,  oh  could 
I  give  up  "all  for  His  dear  sake,"  if  it  meant  giving 
up  him?  Would  it  mean,  having  real  spiritual 
stature,  surrendering  my  own  dear  himself?  It  is 
all  a  muddle  and  I  need  your  wise  advice. 

The  End  of  a  Busy  Day. 

The  days  come  and  go,  and  I  may  not  wait  in 
active  for  the  untangling  of  the  knots  in  my  life 
skein,  but  must  keep  about  the  business  of  healing 
the  wee  ones'  hurts,  teaching  them  how  to  sew  a 


196      "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

seam,  and  dust  a  room  and  be  sorry  for  wrong 
doing  and  faithful  in  the  performance  of  their  little 
tasks. 

To-day  little  Bedr  (Full  Moon)  was  naughty  and 
gave  wee  Zehra  (Flower)  a  wicked  push  which 
sent  her  headlong  on  some  sharp  stones  and  fedaghit 
rasha  "cut  her  head."  My!  how  the  blood  ran, 
and  poor  frightened,  repentent  Bedr  followed,  sob 
bing  up  her  little  Calvary,  marking  the  drops  of 
blood  all  the  way.  She  took  refuge  at  my  side, 
holding  on  to  my  skirts  and  asking,  "Will  she  die? 
Have  I  slain  her?  I  pray  thee,  I  pray  thee."  Poor 
little  motherless  baby,  just  five  the  other  day. 
After  the  wound  had  been  washed,  I  found  it  was 
very  small  and  really  of  no  account.  Then  I  took 
them  both  to  my  sitting-room  and  we  talked  it 
over.  Bedr  could  hardly  wait  to  say  Betreedy 
tsamaheenyf  "Wilt  thou  forgive  me?"  And  the 
little  flower  child,  consoled  with  a  cookie,  coldly 
said,  "Aye,  aye,"  and  went  on  making  scallops 
around  the  edge  of  her  sweetie  with  her  little  white 
teeth.  The  incident  was  closed  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned.  But  sorry  Bedr  had  not  shown  enough 
contrition,  and  running  to  her  shelf  in  the  closet, 
brought  her  dearest  possession,  a  large  pink  glass 
bead  she  had  strung  on  a  bit  of  string,  and  insisted 
that  Zehra  wear  it  around  her  neck. 

"And  against  another  time,"  I  asked.  "How 
about  hands  which  push?  What  shall  we  do  with 
them?"  She  looked  solemnly  at  me  with  her  great 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"      197 

black  eyes,  then  coming  slowly  forward,  whispered 
with  a  catch  in  her  breath,  "Tie  them  fast,  my 
teacher." 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  and  bade  her  bring  a  hand 
kerchief,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  morning  she  sat 
as  still  as  a  mouse  on  a  little  chair,  her  arms 
folded  and  tied  together. 

In  the  afternoon  Um  AH  came — a  good  three 
hours'  walk — for  me  to  look  at  her  eye,  on  which 
a  ripe  pear  had  fallen  as  she  was  looking  up  into 
the  tree.  I  could  see  nothing  wrong,  but  she  can 
not  distinguish  objects  with  it,  and  I  shall  have 
to  send  her  to  some  one  in  Beyrout  who  knows 
about  eyes. 

While  I  was  busy  with  her,  a  company  of  Mos 
lem  ladies  called  and  I  entertained  them  with  the 
Victrola.  Subhan  el  Khalik,  Ma  ashterkum  entum 
cl  Amerikan,  "Praise  to  the  Creator,  How  clever 
are  you  Americans,"  were  some  of  the  comments. 
Then  we  had  tea  and  some  of  Ferrud's  cake.  While 
they  were  here  the  Adan  for  the  Aser  (the  middle 
of  the  afternoon)  was  heard,  and  they  asked  me 
for  a  drink  of  water  and  if  they  might  say  their 
prayers.  The  water  brought,  they  rinsed  their 
mouths  and  standing  and  kneeling,  prayed  with 
their  faces  toward  Mecca.  I  am  glad  they  have 
enough  confidence  in  me  to  approach  their  God 
in  the  only  way  they  know,  even  in  my  presence. 
Mother,  did  you  ever  hear  of  anyone  in  America, 


198     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

out  making  calls,  asking  permission  to  kneel  down 
and  pray,  and  thus  keep  a  tryst  with  our  God? 

A  Glad  Day. 

To-night  I  come  to  you  darling  mother,  too  ex 
cited  to  sleep.  If  I  could  only  share  my  brimming 
cup  with  you.  First,  your  cable  is  here,  "Sailing 
to-day."  Oh,  I'll  believe  it  is  true  when  I  see  you 
on  the  steamer  deck  in  Beyrout  harbour.  Still,  I 
know  you  are  actually  on  the  ocean  this  very 
minute,  every  whirl  of  the  screw  bringing  you  by 
so  much  nearer.  And  when  you  are  here,  are  you 
going  to  experience  the  pull  of  privilege  too,  and 
be  content  and  happy,  loving  and  blessing  your 
adopted  grandchildren?  You  are  going  to  be  just 
that,  if  I  know  my  own  mother. 

Oh,  but  I  have  not  told  you  the  great,  splendid 
piece  of  news.  Why  do  things  of  deep  joy  come 
as  surprises?  As  I  sat  on  the  balcony  alone,  each 
weenty  one  in  bed,  I  heard  the  gate-bell,  and  Fer- 
rud's  kobkobs  clattering  on  the  stairs  down  to  the 
first  landing  that  she  might  peep  from  the  window, 
and  her  rush  through  the  hall  and  out  to  me 
breathless  with  the  importance  of  news,  Fee  wahid 
burra,  "Some  one  is  outside."  Some  one  indeed! 
As  she  bustled  away  to  prepare  sherbat,  I  heard, 
"Am  I  welcome?"  and  there  stood  the  Dearest 
Man.  Ah,  how  welcome,  as  he  was  soon  assured, 
although  there  crept  through  my  heart  a  fear,  some 
how.  "Why?  Why?"  I  enquired  as  soon  as  I 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     199 

could — I  was  prevented  from  breathing  freely  for; 
a  few  minutes,  let  alone  speaking. 

"Why?"  he  answered  at  last.  "Why?  your 
questions  must  be  answered,  and  those  fears  dis 
missed,  my  Rachel.  Could  I  let  you  go  through 
this  time  of  testing  and  decision  alone  when  only 
a  matter  of  less  than  a  week  lay  between  us?  To 
gether  we  can  thresh  it  out,  but  apart — who  knows  ? 
You, — would  you  have  built  a  barrier  to  keep  me 
perpetually  outside?  Some  of  your  statements  were 
rather  startling,  you  know."  Oh,  I  did  know,  and 
I  feared  still  more  he  seemed  so  grave.  But  we 
agreed  that  we  would  not  discuss  anything  until 
to-morrow.  So  I  put  my  fears  one  side  for  over 
night,  and  we  sat  under  the  Syrian  stars  and  spoke 
of  other  things,  happy  to  be  together  again. 

His  eyes  with  that  special  smile  he  reserves  for 
me,  were  confident  but  serious,  somehow,  and  with 
a  new  gleam.  But  for  to-night,  he  was  here,  and 
not  far  away. 

As  he  was  starting  for  the  Hotel  where  he  had 
secured  lodgings,  I  asked,  "How  long  can  you 
stay?"  and  he  seemed  to  think  I  alone  could  answer 
my  own  question. 

"No,  oh  no,  I  can't,"  I  exclaimed,  and  before  I 
knew  what  was  happening,  a  great,  tearing  sob 
stopped  further  speech. 

"Rachel,  child,"  and  his  tones  were  very  tender, 
"has  it  been  so  hard?  It  is  well  I  came.  Wait 
and  trust  a  little.  Can't  you  find  any  confidence  on 


200     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

which  to  rest?  We  will  find  a  way  to-morrow," 
he  comforted  as  he  kissed  away  the  tears.  He 
would  not  leave  me  until  he  was  quite  satisfied 
about  my  unhappiness.  Then  he  sent  me  off  to 
bed,  letting  himself  out  of  the  house.  I  listened  to 
each  foot-fall  going  up  the  road.  But  I  am  some 
how,  greatly  afraid  of  to-morrow. 

The  Next  Night,  after  the  Day  of  Days. 

My  pen  cannot  move  fast  enough  to  tell  you 
about  The  Day,  but  I  have  put  on  the  curb  bit  and 
will  begin  at  the  beginning.  After  breakfast  yes 
terday,  I  packed  a  basket  of  lunch  and  we  took 
C.  D.'s  car  and  went  to  that  enchanting  spot  over 
the  sea,  where  Denny  first  offered  to  teach  me  to 
spell  out  a  certain  primer,  and  there  undisturbed 
and  in  quiet  we  had  it  out.  Deebna  took  the  car 
on  to  Trablus  for  some  slight  repairs,  coming  back 
in  time  to  take  us  home  for  tea. 

When  Denny  had  seen  that  I  was  comfortably 
seated  he  began  without  any  preamble,  "Now, 
Rachel,  let  us  face  it  squarely  and  see  where  we 
stand."  Then  he  asked,  "Can  you  put  aside  for  the 
time  being  everything,"  and  he  hesitated  an  instant 
before  he  added,  "even  our  love?"  gravely  said. 

I  smiled  up  at  him,  but  could  not  answer.  Again 
he  asked,  "Tell  me,  is  there  no  way  to  arrange  for 
this  work  to  be  carried  on  without  your  constant 
presence  ?"  I  told  him  we  could  probably  find  some 
one  much  better  fitted  than  I  to  carry  it  on,  but  I 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     201 

hoped  she  would  not  materialize.  "Why?"  he  next 
probed,  and  waited  gravely  and  silently  for  my 
answer,  which  tarried.  The  testing  had  come. 

"Denny,"  I  said  slowly,  "when  you  first  knew 
me,  I  was  not  worth  a  second  thought.  I  was  un 
developed  and  ignorant  and  without  a  particle  of 
real  religion  in  my  makeup.  I  was  arrogant  and 
stupid  and  foolish.  It  was  considered  smart  in 
my  college  set  to  say  religion  was  old  fashioned. 
'Oh,  yes,  I  was  an  Episcopalian,  but  not  a  Christian. 

"But  somehow,  I  'caught  the  gleam'  of  something 
I  did  not  comprehend,  from  those  saintly  mission 
aries  I  came  in  contact  with,  and  I  set  myself  the 
task  of  searching  for  its  source.  And  I  found  it. 
It  comes  from  the  heart  of  the  Man  who  died  be 
cause  He  so  loved.  My  great  discovery  was  that 
He  died  for  me  as  though  I  were  the  only  sinner  on 
earth.  Don't  you  see  why  I  must  be  here?  It  is 
the  least  I  can  do  for  Him,  it  seems  to  me.  I  find 
Kate's  dying  confidence  and  trust  hard  to  set  aside, 
and  I  had  just  promised  my  Lord,  I  would  do  the 
best  I  could  if  He  would  help  me  for  the  rest  of 
my  life  right  here,  when  you  came  along,  and  it 
was  so  blessed  to  belong  to  you  that  for  those  three 
days  while  we  were  in  Paradise,  I  made  myself 
believe  I  could  be  all  things  to  this  work  and  you 
could  go  on  being  an  archaeologist  and  an  English 
gentleman  with  your  estates,  and  all  would  be  well. 
But  it  won't  work,  and  what  shall  we  do?" 

"No,  Rachel,  it  won't  work.    I  see  that,  too.    You 


202     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

have  gone  to  the  root  of  the  matter.  There  is 
but  one  working  basis,  one  dynamic  for  us  both. 
The  only  power  great  enough  and  enduring  and 
strong  enough  to  remove  this  mountain  between  us 
and  happiness,  is  love.  Love  for  Him  who  is  the 
source  of  all  love,  love  for  each  other  and  love 
for  this  people.  You  said  in  your  letter  you  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  your  husband  being  merely 
an  appendage  to  your  work,  which  we  had  agreed 
must  not  be  given  up." 

He  had  been  standing,  leaning  against  a  rock 
while  listening  to  me,  but  now  he  came  and  grasp 
ing  my  hands  drew  me  into  his  arms.  "Rachel, 
Rachel,"  and  his  voice  shook  with  deep  emotion, 
"not  as  an  adjunct,  but  couldn't  I  help?  Perhaps, 
I  might  become  a  'sent  one'  in  time,  too.  The 
double  harness  can  be  made  to  fit  and  not  gall. 
Shall  it  be  share  and  share  alike?" 

And  then  he  told  me  how  they  had  wanted  him 
to  go  on  with  the  excavations  up  country,  but  he 
declined,  "because,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  try  helping 
fit  men  into  their  places  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven, 
instead  of  spending  my  days  putting  pieces  of  pot 
tery  together  in  an  attempt  to  spell  out  the  pre 
historic  past.  I  can  still  do  that  as  a  pastime,  but 
no  longer  as  a  major  pursuit.  You  see,  dearest, 
I  too  have  learned  lessons  in  this  land.  The  Man 
of  Nazareth  is  become  a  new  Friend  as  I  have 
come  to  know  His  fellow-countrymen  and  their 
needs  and  possibilities."  Oh  mother,  how  my  heart 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     203 

sang  its  loudest  joy  song  as  I  listened  to  a  lot 
more  than  I  could  tell  you,  knowing  that  there  was 
not  to  be  any  sacrifice,  but  more  and  more  love  in 
a  life  together,  with  him. 

When  we  were  going  home  I  said,  "After  all  we 
have  settled  it  along  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
The  story  writers  would  have  made  me  pious  and 
proud  spiritually,  so  that  I  would  have  refused  to 
see  any  way  but  the  hardest, — renunciation  of  you 
and  all  joy  of  living." 

"Rachel,"  he  rejoined,  "we  are  real  people,  living 
in  a  world  of  work  and  need.  Not  every  one  is 
able  to  choose  his  field  of  labour,  and  not  every 
one  elects  the  corners  where  the  results  make  no 
great  showing.  You  are  not  a  story-book  char 
acter,  but  my "  I'll  not  say  what,  for  it  was 

for  my  ears  alone — and  his  hand  found  mine 
(Deebna  could  not  see)  "and  besides  you  are  strong 
enough  to  hold  fast  to  your  ideals." 

We  were  spinning  along  towards  home  in  that 
contentment,  which  I  fancy  comes  not  many  times 
in  one's  life,  when  ahead  of  us  by  the  roadside 
under  the  shelter  of  a  wayside  olive  tree,  we  ob 
served  a  knot  of  people  gathered  round  something 
on  the  ground. 

Deebna  stopped  beside  them,  and  we  witnessed 
the  saddest  sight.  A  young  wife  and  mother  was 
just  breathing  her  last  when  we  drew  up  alongside. 
I  sprang  from  the  car,  for  I  recognized  them  as 
people  I  had  seen  in  J.  The  young  husband  was 


204     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

holding  his  two-months-old  son  in  his  arms  in  a 
frenzy  of  grief,  calling  upon  the  inanimate  form 
before  him  to  speak  to  him,  to  look  at  her  first 
born,  and  then  with  streaming  eyes,  turned  to  me 
and  begged  me  to  do  something.  I  kneeled  beside 
him  and  gathered  the  motherless  babe  to  my  heart 
and  tried  to  find  out  what  had  happened.  It  seems 
the  wife  had  never  been  strong  since  the  boy  came, 
and  that  day  besought  her  husband  to  take  her  to 
her  village.  She  was  weak,  but  insisted  that  the 
change  would  benefit  her,  so  they  started  and  had 
only  gone  an  hour's  journey  when  she  cried  out  in 
great  pain  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  lie  down. 
They  spread  the  carriage  cushions  under  the 
friendly  tree,  and  there  with  the  sunlight  glinting 
through  the  silver  grey  leaves  she  left  her  husband 
and  little  sleeping  lad  forever. 

Denny  took  command  of  the  situation  with  such 
tenderness  and  wisdom.  Deebna  was  sent  after  a 
coffin,  the  driver  of  the  carriage  to  bring  a  doctor 
to  certify  as  to  the  cause  of  death  for  the  govern 
ment,  and  then  he  drew  the  husband,  bereft  and 
nearly  frantic  away  from  that  quiet  form  under 
the  carriage  robe,  and  learned  about  his  circum 
stances,  his  business  and  especially  that  there  was 
no  near  relative  in  a  position  to  care  for  the  baby. 
Denny  asked  the  baby's  name  and  was  told  it  was 
Hanna,  "John."  "That's  my  name,"  he  told  the 
father.  "I  shall  have  to  see  that  my  namesake  is 
properly  cared  for  until  he  is  old  enough  to  care 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     205 

for  himself,"  which  fact  will  be  a  comfort  when 
the  poor  man  is  quiet  enough  to  think  clearly. 

The  plain  coffin  was  soon  there,  and  the  pathetic 
procession  started,  the  wife  in  the  same  carriage 
in  which  she  left  home  a  few  hours  before,  the 
grief-stricken  man  with  us  in  the  car,  and  the 
motherless  little  one  cradled  in  my  arms.  There 
are  many  details  of  our  arrival,  of  the  arrangements 
for  the  funeral  which  was  held  early  this  morning, 
for  according  to  Turkish  law  the  dead  must  be 
buried  within  twenty-four  hours,  which  I  cannot 
put  on  paper.  I  know,  the  shining  coins  I  saw 
slipped  into  Abu  Hanna's  hand  as  Denny  parted 
with  him,  have  eased  the  material  expense  of  this 
unexpected  sorrow. 

All  last  night  I  heard  the  death  wail  in  the  one- 
roomed  cottage  by  the  sea.  Sympathy  is  quick- 
winged  and  sorrow  sacred  in  this  land  of  loving 
hearts.  Cooked  food  in  quantity  was  carried  to 
the  house  of  mourning,  none  lacked  as  they  watched 
by  the  side  of  the  solitary  mourner,  who  never  left 
the  dead  until  she  was  carried  to  her  last  resting 
place.  Little  Hanna  slept  last  night  in  a  hastily 
constructed  bassinet, — a  clothes-basket  lined  with 
pillows,  on  a  chair  beside  my  bed. 

A  strange  ending  for  my  great  joy  day,  was  it 
not?  But  sorrow  is  ever  tagging  on  the  heels  of 
happiness.  "Our  first  service  together,  my  Rachel," 
the  Dearest  Man  said,  as  we  stood  on  the  balcony 


206     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

facing  the  orange  and  pomegranate  garden  after 
our  belated  supper. 

The  shadows  deepened  and  darkened,  blurring 
the  trees  as  twilight  was  swallowed  up  of  night. 
Across  the  nearby  sea,  the  lights  of  the  distant 
city  came  out  one  by  one.  The  Little  Sister  of  the 
Moon  (Venus),  glowing  and  resplendent  in  the 
western  sky,  threw  a  path  of  glory  on  the  water  as 
though  it  were  a  gleaming  highway  over  which  we 
might  pass  to  those  other  lands  far  below  the 
horizon  which  gave  us  birth.  But  even  as  we 
watched,  the  eastern  horizon  became  slowly  dis 
tinct,  and  presently  the  full  moon  edged  itself  above 
the  rim  of  the  mountains,  so  that  the  lesser  light 
paled  and  withdrew. 

We  watched  the  transformation  of  the  dark 
Lebanon  as  the  great  orb  asserted  its  sway,  noted 
how  the  shadows  crept  away  from  my  garden,  until 
each  tree  stood  out  leafy  and  symmetrical  in  silence 
and  beauty,  and  knew  we  were  witnessing  as  in  a 
pantomime  staged  by  nature  for  us  two  alone,  a 
symbolism  of  our  future  and  work.  Not  to  the 
west,  not  back  home  along  a  golden  pathway  must 
we  walk,  but  right  here  where  the  light  was  flood 
ing  the  place  of  my  choosing  and  his,  whose 
presence  beside  me  had  already  glorified  life. 


My  heart's  beloved  came  with  morn 
ing's  faintest  light. 

I  cried,  fOh  sit  thee  here  and  rest  be 
side  thy  love 

Oh  heart  of  mine.     I'll  hold  the  cup 
for  thee  to  quaff. 

Didst  thou  not  fear  the  lurking  dangers 
of  the  night?' 

He  answer  made,  'I  know  no  fear,  for 
love  of  thee 

Hath  spoiled  me  of  both  my  spirit  and 
my  soul.' 
— An  Ancient  Arabic  Kasideh. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

Mother  dearest,  you  are  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  every  minute,  and  soon  I  shall  be  telling 
you  all  the  things  I  have  not  written  during  these 
three  years  we  have  been  separated. 

Miss  Dear  came  back  to-day,  and  is  such  intelli 
gent  comfort  and  help.  Denny  telegraphed  her  the 
day  after  The  Day  of  Days.  "The  beginning  of 
days  and  months  and  years  please  God,  my 
Rachel,"  he  said,  adding  "and  why  have  any  break 
in  the  beautiful  continuity?"  with  an  enquiring 
smile. 

I  reflected  that  this  is  the  land  in  which  the 
Church  of  Christ  was  once  symbolized  as  "A  bride 
adorned  for  her  husband,"  and  made  answer,  "You 
always  say  things.  But  I  am  not  ready.  It  is  three 
years  since  I  have  had  a  new  frock,  and  this  bride 
is  not  going  to  her  bridegroom  except  with  the 
attire  due  him." 

That  adorable  smile  rewarded  me  for  the  pretty 
conceit,  and  something  else  too,  which  held  my  lips 
fast  shut  for  ever  so  long.  Then,  "Rachel,  your 
adorning  is  not  in  fine  apparel  of  latest  mode,  but 
In  the  love  of  your  heart  and  that  new  outlook  on 
life  which  shines  in  your  grey  eyes.  The  fact  is, 

209 


210     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

you  would  be  adorned  if  your  wedding  garment 
were  but  one  of  those  white  frocks  I  notice  you 
always  wear  mornings.  Child,  what  do  we  care 
how  you  are  gowned.  Our  faces  are  set  toward 
new  horizons,  not  fashions." 

"But  Denny,"  I  persisted,  "don't  you  really  care 
how  I  dress?"  and  as  I  said  it,  I  realized  how  slight 
my  knowledge  was  of  the  man. 

"I  care  much,"  he  smiled  back  at  me.  "So  much 
that  I  always  know  what  you  have  on,  and  that 
it  seems  fitting  to  the  occasion.  One  gown  I  espe 
cially  like  to  see  you  in,  is  that  wine-coloured  one 
you  wore  on  The  Day."  I  made  a  mental  vow 
then  and  there,  that  I  would  always  gratify  myself 
and  him,  by  having  a  red  taffeta  frock  in  my  ward 
robe. 

I  told  him  I  was  pleased  he  liked  my  clothes,  but 
insisted  that  I  did  not  have  a  thing  I  would  wish 
to  be  married  in.  His  next  remark  was  fairly 
breath-stopping. 

"My  Rachel,  when  is  the  wedding  to  take  place? 
That  has  not  been  decided,  has  it?"  The  answer 
tarried.  "After  mother  gets  here,"  I  finally  said. 
"Won't  that  be  time  enough  to  decide?" 

"We  must  decide  some  things  before  that,"  he 
said,  and  we  talked  a  long  hour  walking  up  and 
down  under  the  grape  arbour,  which  is  so  huge  that 
five  great  vines  are  needed  to  cover  it.  Near  by  the 
tall  eucalyptus  tree  kept  shaking  out  spicy  smells 
as  the  breeze  rippled  its  long-hanging  foliage,  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     211 

the  birds  poured  a  continual  fusillade  of  melody 
from  the  tapering  topmost  boughs. 

And  this  is  the  conclusion.  He  had  many  argu 
ments  against  our  being  separated  again,  and  I  was 
persuaded  of  them  at  last,  to  assent  to  his  proposi 
tion,  that  we  be  married  some  time  during  the 
week  after  mother  arrives.  Her  steamer  is  due 
next  Saturday  week,  and  this  is  Monday.  It  looks 
to  me  as  though  there  would  be  a  wedding  here 
very  soon.  Meanwhile  Denny  is  to  absent  himself, 
for  I  shall  never  be  able  to  accomplish  anything 
if  he  is  here.  When  I  asked  where  he  was  going, 
he  answered,  "I  have  some  exploring  I  would  like 
to  do."  "More  archaeology?"  I  queried.  "Of  a 
certain  sort,"  was  his  reply.  And  this  is  the  reason 
why  he  is  still  here. 

Beyrout.     The  Sea  View  Hotel. 

How  I  have  longed  for  and  at  the  same  time 
scorned  the  New  York  shops  during  this  busy  week. 
I  am  not  sure  but  I  have  found  things  as  dainty 
and  sweet  and  fitting  as  I  would  have  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  I  decided  that  I  would  be  sensible  and 
not  try  to  have  a  really  new  wardrobe.  In  the  first 
place,  there  was  no  time  for  that,  and  secondly  I 
have  an  idea  mother  is  bringing  me  some  things 
from  home. 

In  the  most  fascinating  of  Oriental  shops,  I  came 
upon  yards  and  yards  of  heavy  white  silk — native 
weave  and  which  will  wash.  That  I  selected  for 


212     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

the  gown — a  simple  going-away  dress  with  a  long 
covering  coat  of  the  same  material.  To  protect 
from  the  dust,  I  got  a  beautiful  white  and  gold 
burnus,  which  is  a  thing  of  joy.  Then  a  French 
milliner  took  a  bit  of  the  material  and  fashioned 
me  a  fetching  motor  cap,  which  I  will  cover  with 
one  of  the  long,  white  silk  terhas  many  of  the 
Syrian  ladies  wear  instead  of  hats.  I  have  de 
spaired  and  nearly  wept  over  the  shoe  question.  I 
can  find  none  to  fit,  and  I  wanted  some  white  ones 
dreadfully.  I  have  pumps  I  brought  from  America, 
but  they  have  been  shabby  for  two  years,  and  have 
been  chalked  and  chalked  until  the  lining  almost 
shows  through  in  the  worn  places.  Well,  they  will 
have  to  stand  another  coat,  for  who  ever  heard  of 
a  bride  being  married  in  anything  but  white  shoes  ? 

Later. 

I  was  interrupted  by  the  gar  g  on  de  chambre 
bringing  the  finished  result  from  the  tailor,  who 
was  interested  enough  to  put  my  frock  right  through 
with  all  speed,  and  he  has  done  far  better  than  I 
expected.  It  is  plain,  severely  so,  but  quite  suitable 
for  the  wedding  robe  of  a  "sent  one."  I  do  not 
intend  to  wear  that  motor  cap  during  the  ceremony, 
instead  a  straight-brimmed  chapeau  with  a  perky 
white  feather,  one  of  the  scraggy  kind,  not  so  pretty, 
but  very  smart  according  to  the  fashion  papers  they 
showed  me. 

Not  a  word  has  come  from  that  Dearest  Man  all 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     213 

this  week.  He  could  not  get  a  motor  of  course, 
but  he  secured  a  good  pair  of  horses  and  started 
for  the  mountains  the  day  I  came  down  here  in 
C.  D.'s  car.  My  shopping  is  all  done,  and  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  by  this  time  to-morrow,  I'll 
be  home  and  that  mother,  my  blessed  mother,  will 
be  with  me.  If  Denny  were  to  be  there  too,  it 
would  be  perfect.  But  he  did  not  know  when  he 
would  return. 

Mother's  Day. 

I  left  word  at  Cook's  that  I  was  to  be  called  for 
at  6  A.  M.,  and  when  I  came  out  to  go  to  the 
steamer,  there  was  the  old  boatman  C.  D.  always 
has,  waiting  for  me  with  Deebna,  who  looked  very 
smart  in  a  new  Sittik  Rosa  suit,  which  being  ren 
dered  into  English  means,  that  his  suit  was  made 
from  pongee,  but  for  some  reason  is  called  "Your 
lady  Rose." 

The  autumnal  rain,  the  "early  rain,"  is  hovering 
along  the  crests  of  the  Taurus  Mountains  away  up 
north,  while  the  nearer  Lebanons  are  wreathed 
with  mists  and  clouds  much  of  the  time.  Occa 
sionally  we  get  omens  of  the  coming  "sound  of 
rain"  in  the  lightning  which  plays  on  the  northern 
horizon  in  the  evening.  Thus  it  is  that  the  sunsets 
and  day  dawnirigs  have  clouds  a-plenty  which  they 
colour  and  glorify  until  I  sometimes  think  heaven 
itself  opens  to  give  us  a  glimpse  of  the  "eye  hath 
not  seen"  wonders  which  await  us  up  there. 


214     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

This  morning  as  I  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  fluccia 
waiting  for  the  steamer  to  get  pratique,  for  until 
that  was  granted  no  one  could  go  on  board,  there 
was  presented  to  mother  a  marvellous  welcome  up 
in  the  sky  and  on  the  mountaintops.  I  could  see 
her  standing  at  the  rail,  and  motioned  to  her  to 
look  toward  the  sunrising,  where  was  a  far  reach 
of  fleecy,  gold-flecked,  piled-up  clouds,  from  be 
hind  which  the  King  of  Day  sent  his  cohorts, 
their  lances  gleaming  and  sparkling,  which  they 
thrust  aloft  to  the  zenith,  as  rank  on  rank  of 
colour-bearers  advanced  shaking  the  reds  and  yel 
lows  and  bright  gold  of  their  banners  against  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  towering  mountains 
until  they  glowed  as  pink  as  a  rose.  In  the  bound 
less  sea  the  whole  magical  picture  was  reflected  as 
in  a  looking-glass.  What  a  welcome  for  mother! 

It  seemed  an  age  before  I  could  get  close  to  the 
steamer,  there  were  so  many  crowding  boats  and 
pushing  boatmen,  and  up  the  companion  way  to  my 
waiting  mother  and  clasp  her  in  my  hungry  arms. 
We  both  cried  when  we  got  under  cover  away 
from  curious  eyes.  I  was  sobbing  from  sheer  joy, 
when,  "Rachel,"  a  voice  said  near  me,  "don't  you 
think  you  had  better  let  me  have  a  chance  to  greet 
our  mother?" 

"Yes,  but  have  you  a  spare  handkerchief?  I 
don't  seem  to  have  any,"  and  I  threw  myself  into 
Denny's  arms  and  cried  some  more.  He  held  me 
tight,  while  he  looked  over  my  head  to  mother,  and 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     215 

I  know  they  smiled  at  my  childishness.  Then 
gently  releasing  me  the  Dearest  Man  bent  and  raised 
her  hand  to  his  lips.  She  had  not  spoken,  just 
silently  looked  at  the  man  who  had  won  her  only 
child's  heart,  and  as  he  lifted  his  head,  said  softly 
with  a  certain  love  note  in  her  voice  my  heart  has 
ached  three  years  to  hear,  "My  son,"  and  drew 
his  face  to  hers  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  His 
eyes  were  misty  and  his  voice  husky  as  he  replied, 
"I  thank  you — mother." 

We  had  a  royal  welcome  when  we  got  home  in 
the  afternoon  from  the  children  clad  in  their  Sun 
day  best,  who  lined  both  sides  of  the  mosaic  walk 
with  smiles  and  flowers,  singing  a  song  of  happiness 
and  sweet  words  Miss  Dear  had  prepared.  As  we 
passed  between  their  ranks,  they  salaamed,  saying, 
"Welcome,  welcome,"  and  I  could  see  mother's 
instant  surrender  to  their  appeal  for  her  love. 

Denny  and  I  took  mother  all  over  the  house  be 
fore  we  let  her  lay  aside  her  wraps  even,  and  then 
we  had  tea  on  the  orange  balcony  together  with  a 
real  lovering  time.  But  finally  I  took  her  to  her 
room  to  unpack  a  little  and  to  rest,  for  she  seemed 
wearied  with  all  the  excitement  of  getting  here  and 
seeing  me  again. 

When  I  entered  my  little  private  sitting  room, 
Denny  was  waiting  for  me,  arms  ready,  into  which 
I  snuggled  in  great  contentment.  "Oh,  but  it  was 
so  long  you  were  away,"  I  told  him.  "Yes,  but  it 


216     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

is  the  last  time,  my  Rachel.  From  now  on  we 
journey  together." 

Ah,  it  is  blessed  to  belong  to  him  who  loves 
and  cares  so  much,  and  I  told  him  so,  his  cheek 
on  mine.  We  have  decided  to  defy  fate  and  be 
married  next  Friday.  I  have  not  a  scrap  of  super 
stition  in  my  makeup,  neither  has  Denny.  When 
we  found  a  delayed  letter  from  C.  D.  in  which 
he  said  that  he  and  Betty  would  reach  Trablus  on 
Wednesday,  it  seemed  but  fair  to  let  them  have 
one  day  to  get  their  new  clothes  unpacked  before 
coming  on  here  even  though  we  had  set  Thursday 
as  the  wedding  day.  Denny  will  go  with  Deebna 
on  Thursday  to  fetch  them.  Meanwhile,  we  must 
get  busy  filling  in  the  date  in  the  invitations  with 
Tiffany  on  the  flap  of  the  envelopes  mother  brought. 
They  will  not  reach  all  of  the  friends  in  time  for 
Friday,  but  will  serve  as  an  announcement  of  the 
marriage. 

It  seems  queer  to  be  writing  this  account  of 
my  happenings  with  mother  under  my  roof,  but 
she  requested  me  to  keep  on  with  my  diary  as  long 
as  I  am  Rachel  Locke,  that  she  may  have  the  story 
complete  from  the  beginning. 

Paradise,   and  underscored.     Somewhere   on   the 

Lebanon. 

Rachel  Locke  is  no  more,  but  Rachel  Whitelaw 
Is  very  much  in  evidence  under  this  pine  tree  where 


"Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?"     217 

she  is  making  a  final  entry  in  a  Russia  leather-bound 
book. 

Finis  has  been  written  across  my  girlhood's 
story,  and  I  am  again  facing  new  horizons  which 
beckon  with  the  fascinating  lure  of  the  unknown. 

Yesterday — may  I  never  forget  one  of  its  happy 
moments,  from  your  wake-up  kiss  in  the  morning, 
dearest  mother,  to  that  rapturous  instant  when 
Denny  looked  at  me  with  a  special  love-lit  smile 
after  the  blessing  had  been  said  over  our  bowed 
heads.  Did  you  notice  that  he  did  not  kiss  me 
then?  That  is  the  regulation  thing  to  do,  but  as  he 
explained  afterwards,  there  wasn't  time  enough. 

Did  I  really  look  an  up-to-date  bride?  I  might 
have  known  you  would  not  let  me  be  married  in 
any  make-shift  gown.  I  was  glad  to  wear  your 
very  own  wedding  dress,  all  freshened  up,  and  to 
have  the  same  filmy  veil  on  my  head  that  you 
had  on  yours.  But  the  tragedy  of  those  slippers. 
Why  did  not  my  feet  grow  more  so  as  to  fill  them 
as  yours  did  on  that  glad  day  so  long  ago?  Do 
you  suppose  any  one  noticed  my  old  pumps,  chalked 
for  the  — nth  time?  I  had  to  wear  them  after  all. 
Think  what  lies  before  me,  please  God.  No  sacri 
fice  of  you  nor  of  him  who  is  the  light  of  my  eyes. 
I  have  you  both  and  here  in  Syria  too. 

Last  evening  after  dinner  we  went  out  on  our 
private  balcony  under  the  beautiful  Syrian  stars, 
which  seemed  brighter  than  usual,  as  though  send 
ing  down  to  us  a  special  benediction.  Up  the  coast 


218     "Who  Follows  in  Their  Train?" 

our  eyes  travelled,  for  home,  and  work  and  our 
future  lie  there.  We  could  see  the  dim  outline  of 
the  Masailaha  Point,  a  landmark  in  our  lives,  and 
caught  the  lights  of  home  as  you  signalled  with  the 
red  matches.  I  could  see — almost — Nabeeha  hold 
ing  her  blazing  love  torch,  and  Bedr  and  Temam, 
a  little  fearful  of  getting  scorched,  but  most  im 
portant  because  I  was  supposed  to  be  watching  for 
their  message  away  up  here.  Tiny  tokens  they 
were,  those  bits  of  colour  in  the  dark  of  night,  but 
big  with  meaning  to  us  both,  and  they  glowed  and 
burned  in  our  hearts  like  the  fire  they  were  in 
reality. 

As  the  last  one  faded  away,  I  turned  to  Denny, 
that  is  I  addressed  him,  I  did  not  have  to  turn,  he 
was  very  close  by,  for  there  came  flashing  in  on 
memory's  page,  the  picture  of  a  girl  in  Miss  De 
light's  school  drawing  a  map  of  the  Empire  on  the 
board.  As  the  outline  of  Syria  'grew  under  her 
crayon,  I  heard  her  say,  "And  here  is  Habeebty 
Sureeyeh." 

"Oh,  Denny,"  I  exclaimed,  "it  is  Habeebty 
Sureeyeh,  is  it  not,  for  both  of  us?"  and  I  stretched 
out  my  arms  as  though  to  enclose  within  them  the 
whole  land  I  have  grown  so  to  love. 

"Beloved  Syria?  Yes,  my  Rachel,  it  is  our 
Beloved  Syria." 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FICTION,  JUVENILE,  Etc. 


CYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY  AND  SON 

r»f   St*»*»l    ILLUSTRATED  BY 

oi  oieei     THE 


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The  Trail  to  the  Hearts  of  Men 

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A  story  of  action  and  power  with  the  scenes  laid  in  China. 
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He  chooses  for  his  higher  ideals  to  find  in  the  long  run,  the 
other  things  are  his.  There  is  much  of  the  spell  of  adventure 
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S.      HALL     YOUNG  Author  «/  "Alaska  Days  with  Jihn  Muir" 

The  Klondike  Clan 

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/.    /.    BELL  WITH  "KITCBEtfER'S  MOB" 

Wee  Macgreegor  Enlists 

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Scotch.  But,  oh,  it's  the  wee  Mac  and  Private  Thompson 
and  Christina  that  belong  in  the  Caledonian  Hall  of  Fame!" 
—  Evening  Sun. 

CHARLES   H.    LERRIGO  Doc  William's  Stronghold 

The  Castle  of  Cheer 

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is  a  strong,  inspiring,  invigorating  story,  spicy  with  romance 
and  humor."  —  The  Continent. 


FICTION,  JUVENILE,  Etc. 


WINIFRED    ARNOLD 

The  Twins  "Pro"  and  "Con" 

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An  altogether  delightful  story,  in  which  two  vivacious  girl- 
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joicing  in  the  name  of  "Mr.  Barker,"  are  the  chief  characters. 
It  is  difficult  to  conceive  of  any  girl  of  Uncle  Sam's  reading 
this  jolly  little  story  except  with  rapt  interest  and  gleeful 
delight. 

Little  Merry  Christmas 

New  Popular  Edition.    Illustrated,  boards,  net  500. 

The  immediate  success  of  this  unusual  Christmas  story  has 


called  forth  a  new  popular-priced  edition.  "From  the  moment 
she  alights,  one  wintry  night,  at  the  snow-piled  station  of 
Oatka  Center,  little  Mary  Christie  begins  to  carry  sunshine 
and  happiness  into  the  frosty  homes,  and  still  frostier  hearts 
of  its  inhabitants." — Presbyterian  Banner. 

MARY    STEWART  Author  ./  "Tell  Me  *  True  Story" 

Tell  Me  a  Hero  Story 

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(while  still  preserving  their  stirring  spirit)  some  old  stories 
found  enshrined  in  mummy-cases  and  the  peasant  songs  of 
the  world.  And  it  ends,  does  this  inspiriting  procession,  with 
some  stories  of  heroes  of  our  own  time — a  French  lad  who 
received  the  Cross  of  Honor — the  King  without  a  kingdom 
whose  very  name  thrills  us — and  a  child  of  the  city  streets,  a 
hero  as  great  as  any  "who  ever  won  a  battle" 

LOUISE    RICE  A  Story  of  Chri,tmal  KVe  in  Gothan, 

The  Girl  Who  Walked  Without  Fear 

Both  a  Story  and  an  Indictment  of  So-called  Chris 
tian  America.  Decorated,  net  5oc. 

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NORMAN  DUNCAN 

Dr.  Grenfell's  Parish 

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tion — with  Added  Material.  Illustrated.  I2mo,  cloth, 
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man;  a  true  story  of  adventure  which  we  should  like  to  seft 
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EARLIER  WORKS  IN  DEMAND 


S.    R.    CROCKETT  AUlh.r.f«Th,Sti</tltMim,ttr,» 

— .^— — — — .  "Tht  Raidirt,"  itt. 

Silver  Sand 

A  Romance  of  Old  Galloway.    Cloth,  net  $1.25. 

"In  this  romance  published  only  a  few  days  after  his 
death,  we  find  Mr.  Crockett  in  his  familiar  Wigtownshire, 
writing  at  his  best,  and  giving  us  an  even  finer  display  of  his 
powers  than  when  he  first  captured  his  admirers." — Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 

CAROLINE  ABBOT  STANLEY 

Dr.  Llewellyn  and  His  Friends 

Illustrated,  I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

The  Kansas  City  Star  says:  "If  there  is  to  be  a  Missouri 
school  of  literature  to  rival  the  famed  Indiana  institution, 
Mrs.  Stanley  has  fairly  earned  the  right  to  a  charter  mem 
bership." 

GRACE  LIVINGSTON  HILL  LUTZ 

The  Man  of  the  Desert 

Illustrated,  lamo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

"Mrs.  Lutz  draws  some  vivid  pictures  of  life  as  it  is  led  in 
a  sheltered  New  England  town,  as  it  is  lived  in  the  desert 
wastes  of  Arizona.  Every  reader  of  this  charming  story  will 
be  made  to  rejoice  in  the  happy  triumph  over  difficulties 
which  gives  to  these  young  people  the  crowning  joy  of  life, 
the  union  of  kindred  souls." — Book  News. 

THURLOW  ERASER 

The  Call  of  the  Easl: 

A  Romance  of  Far  Formosa.  Illustrated,  I2mo, 
cloth,  net  $1.25. 

"A  delightful  picture  of  life  in  China  during  the  French 
invasion  of  Formosa.  It  is  primarily  a  thrilling  story  of  the 
love  of  a  man  for  a  maid,  amid  scenes  trying  to  both  of 
them." — Spokane  Chronicle. 

CYRUS   TOWNSEND    BRADY 

The  Little  Angel  of  Canyon  Creek 

Illustrated,  I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

"A  capital  and  captivating  story  of  the  old  days  of  the 
Western  Colorado  Mining  Camps — days  when  a  man's  chances 
of  returning  to  his  cabin  at  night,  depended  largely  on  his 
ability  to  'draw  a  bead.'  A  tale  brim-ful  of  vim  and  color 
incident  to  days  and  places  where  life  was  cheap  and  virtue 
rare." — Christtan  Intelligencer. 


FICTION,  JUVENILE,  Etc. 


CYRUS   TOWN  SEND    BRADY      Amtkv'if  «Tk*  Litd*  AntJ 

•  »f  Canytn  Cnek" 

A  Baby  of  the  Frontier 

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A  captivating  story  of  pioneer  days  and  Indian  adventures. 
Mr.  Brady  is  at  his  best  throughout  and  relates  the  thrilling 
episodes  surrounding  the  capture  by  a  tribe  of  Cheyenne  In 
dians  of  the  little  daughter  of  the  commanding  officer  of  Fort 
Sullivan,  with  vividness  and  power. 

S.      R.      CROCKETT  Author  ./  "Silver  Sand,"  etc. 

Hal  o'  the  Ironsides  : 

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Crockett's  last  story.  A  rip-roaring  tale  of  the  days  of  tho 
great  Oliver  —  days  when  the  dogs  of  war  were  let  loose  in 
English  meadows,  when  the  unbeatable  Ironsides  invoked  the 
spirit  of  the  God  of  battles,  and  "the  gallants  of  England 
struck  home  for  the  King." 

WILLIAM     SAGE  Author  tf"  Robert  Tturnay"  Ett. 

A  Maid  of  Old  Virginia 

A  Romance  of  Bacon's  Rebellion.    Illust,  net  $1.25. 

A  fascinating  story  of  early  days  of  the  Old  Dominion, 
when  Sir  William  Berkeley  was  governor  at  Jamestown,  dur- 
the  Colony's  revolt  against  oppression,  intermingled  with  ad 
ventures  of  Indian  warfare. 

CLARA  E.    LAUGHLIN 

When  My  Ship  Comes  Home 

Decorated  and  Illustrated  by  Samuel  M.  Palmer. 
l6mo,  cloth,  net  $1.00. 

The  latest  of  Miss  Laughlin's  stories  well  sustains  her 
reputation  for  originality  and  refreshment.  None  of  her  pre 
vious  works  excell  in  quaintness  or  charm  this  narrative  of 
the  two  "argosies,"  which  both  eventually  make  safe  harbor. 

MARTHA  S.  GIELOW          Authir  „  "Uncie  Sam,"  .*. 

The  Light  on  the  Hill 

A  Tale  of  the  Mountains.     Illustrated,  net  $1.00. 

"A  simple  story  of  life  in  the  Appalachian  Mountains, 
which  is  full  of  pathos  and  which  shows  the  true  nobility, 
honesty,  loyalty."  —  Christian  Work. 

I.    T.    THURSTON  Authtr  »/  «  The  Ttrch  Bearer,"  etc. 

"D*  Ye  the  Next  Thynge" 


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"The  Eight  Weeks'  Club  Movement"  of  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.  is 
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is  a  great  work  in  the  world  for  girls  to  do."  —  Book  News, 


NEW  EDITIONS 


S.  HALL  YOUNG 

Alaska  Days  with  John  Muir 

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owned  Stickeen  and  who  was  Muir's  companion  on  that  ad 
venturous  trip  among  the  Alaskan  glaciers.  This  is  not  only 
a  breezy  outdoor  book,  full  of  the  wild  beauties  of  the  Alas 
kan  wilderness;  it  is  also  a  living  portrait  of  John  Muir  in 
the  great  moments  of  his  career."  —  New  York  Times, 

S.    R.    CROCKETT  Author  «/  "Silver  Sand,"  etc. 


FTfll  *r»  thf   Tron<*idp«J  •    A  Story  of  the  Day» 

n<u   u  me  iruii&iuej*  .        of  Cromwell 

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English  meadows,  and  _  "the  gallants  of  England  struck  home 
for  the  King."  —  Examiner. 

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Fanny  Crosby's  life  as  she  told  it  to  her  friend,  who  retells 
it  in  this  charming  book.  All  lovers  of  the  blind  hymn 
writer  ought  to  read  this  volume.  It  tells  a  story  of  pathos 
and  of  cheer.  It  will  strengthen  the  faith  and  cheer  the 
heart  of  every  reader."  —  Watchman-Examiner, 

PROF.  HUGH  BLACK 

The  New  World 

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material,  religious.  This  he  does  with  moderation  yet  with 
courage,  and  always  with  hopefulness."  —  The  Outlook. 

S.  M.  ZWEMER,  P.P.,  F.R.G.S.      Authar  ,f  «Arakia»  ,*. 

Childhood  in  the  Moslem  World 

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the  blighting  influence  of  Islam  are  set  forth  with  graphic 
fidelity.  Both  in  text  and  illustrations,  Dr.  Zwemer  s  new 
book  covers  much  ground  hitherto  lying  untouched  in  Mo 
hammedan  literature."  —  Christian  Work. 


FICTION,  JUVENILE,  Etc. 


/.     T.     THURSTQN  Authtr  «/  « Thi  Biilut't  Shadtw" 

Billy  Burns  of  Troop  5 

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Here  is  a  Boy  Scout's  story  which  has  to  do  with  the 
average  boy  of  the  city.  Like  "The  Bishop's  Shadow"  and 
"The  Scout  Master  of  Troop  5,"  it  is  fresh,  breezy,  clear-cut 
and  catchy — a  fine,  strong,  earnest,  lucid  book,  written  with 
the  idea  of  helping  boys  to  do  their  part  of  the  world's  work. 
The  author's  wonderful  insight  into  the  boy  nature  and 
knowledge  of  his  ways  of  work  and  recreation  is  apparent. 

NORMAN  DUNCAN  «Biii,  Totiaii"  s.rit, 

Billy  Topsail,  M.D. 

A  Tale  of  Adventure  with  Doctor  Luke  of  the 
Labrador.  Illustrated.  I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.35. 

The  further  adventures  of  Billy  Topsail  and  Archie  Arm 
strong  on  the  ice,  in  the  forest,  and  at  sea.  In  a  singular 
manner,  the  boys  fall  in  with  a  doctor  of  the  outposts  and 
are  moved  to  join  forces  with  him.  The  doctor  is  "Doctor 
Luke  of  the  Labrador,"  whose  prototype,  as  everyone  knows, 
is  Dr.  Grenfell.  Its  pages  are  as  crowded  with  brisk  adven 
tures  as  the  pages  of  the  preceding  books. 

EDWIN     C.     BURR1TT  End,rs,d  Officially  by  th* 

Boy  Sceuts  of  America 

Boy  Scout  Crusoes 

A  Tale  of  the  South  Seas.  Illustrated  by  Walter 
Louderback.  I2tno,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

Storm,  wreck,  hunger,  encounters  with  reptiles,  wild  beasts 
and  strange  birds,  house-building  in  the  wilderness,  an  ex- 
pkjtetion  of  a  volcano — together  with  many  interesting  bits 
•»i  <catural  hietory  are  interwoven  in  this  story  of  the  Boy 
adventures  on  an  unchartered  island  of  the  tropics. 


ESSAYS 

FANCE     THOMPSON  Authtr  „  «Eat  and  Grow  Thin» 

"Take  It  From  Me" 

A  Look-In  on  the  Other  Fellow.     I2mo,  net  $1.00. 

Mr.  Thompson's  new  book  is  written  with  the  sympathetic 
understanding  of  men  and  women  that  has  characterized  his 
previous  work.  No  subject  of  greater  interest  has  yet  been 
touched  by  his  pen,  and  his  reflections  and  analyses  touch 
upon  every  phase  of  human  experience.  In  its  broad  sanity 
and  genuine  helpfulness,  this  latest  book  equals  anything  he 
has  written. 


A     000671311     9 


